


marionette

by lovelylogans



Category: Sanders Sides, Sanders Sides (Web Series), Thomas Sanders, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Asphyxiation, Biting, Blood, Dreams vs. Reality, Drowning, Gen, Hostage Situation, Mentions of Drowning, Puppets, Restraints, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Shoving, Spiders, Strangulation, Swearing, uhh?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-03-16 17:32:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13641096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: Virgil woke, panting desperately, a hand clutching at his neck, sitting up, feeling dizzy as he looked around.The couch. He was on the couch, in the living room. The fairy lights were still on, but someone must have turned out the lamp. Virgil tried taking a deep, even breath.Dream. It was just a dream. You fell asleep out here and Patton moved you to the couch so you wouldn’t get a crick in your neck.Except.





	1. virgil

**Author's Note:**

> scream at me for the ending of this chapter at [lovelylogans](lovelylogans.tumblr.com) on tumblr

_Anxiety,_  Logan has told Virgil once, twice, a hundred times, as they sat back-to-back, _is often fueled by epinephrine, commonly known as adrenaline. Your brain thinks that you are under threat, and your body responds accordingly, even if there is no physical danger present._

At the time, Virgil had thought distantly of mothers lifting cars off of their children, of people leaping off cliffs to feel that rush, and could not compare it to himself. It seemed stupid, like some kind of broken button in his brain; press here for dopamine, _sike,_  you get a pounding heart and sweating and chest pain instead, deal with it. Adrenaline hadn’t made him feel strong, or brave, or full of life; it made him shaky, and uncertain, and _terrified._

Logan’s ramblings could do a lot to help ease Virgil if he started to feel tightly wound; Logan could talk and talk about anything that he was thinking about that day and the familiar drone of his voice would set something at ease inside of Virgil, give him something to focus on, something else to listen to.

Patton always checked to see if Virgil needed someone or if he needed to be alone, and had gotten so much better at seeing through Virgil’s lies that Virgil didn’t even bother anymore. Patton was full of warm hugs, and warm smiles, and horrible puns, and encouragement about self care, and cookies if he wanted them. 

Roman, as complex as Virgil’s relationship was with him, could help too; spin an elaborate tale about his trials and quests, sing at the top of his lungs, draw attention away from Virgil in a way so casual and subtle that Virgil couldn’t always catch it until after it was done.

He was getting better, sort of. There were still bad days, but now he had them; he had Logan to sit on his bed and ramble, he had Patton to lean up against, he had Roman to glitter and shine so brightly it was easy for Virgil to slip a bit more into the comforting shadows. 

It was easy to lean on them, and they let him, encouraged him to, even. He wasn’t sure if there would ever be a time he wasn’t awed by that, not that he’d ever tell them so. Even after years of shutting them out, and them turning away, they had still been able to repair it, find the single unbroken thread between them all and weave around it, make it stronger.

Virgil was busy absently running his fingers along the uneven stitching on his hoodie with one hand and scrolling through tumblr with the other, sitting perched on the windowsill, as Roman had his feet in Patton’s lap, bemoaning the latest fault in his latest quest, Logan reading quietly in an armchair. Night had dropped its consuming black sheet over the sky, and the room was lit only by the warm light of Roman’s fairy lights, a lamp glowing soft amber beside Logan.

“Mm,” Patton said, patting Roman’s ankle sympathetically. “Then what did you do?”

“Well, what I _had_  to, I suppose,” Roman sighed. “I cut the villain free, of course.”

“And he got away,” Patton guessed.

“And he got away.” Roman said, scowling.

“Well,” Patton said, rubbing his thumb along Roman’s shin. “I, for one, am very proud of you. You’ll catch him again, some time. If you hadn’t cut him loose, he’d have died. And that’s no small thing.”

Roman paused, and said, “I saved his life?”

“Well, it sounds like it,” Patton said, edged in a laugh. “Saving him from dangling over a spike pit sounds pretty life-save-y to me, kiddo. Besides, if you saved his life... maybe that’ll weigh on him, a little.”

“Dramatic tension,” Roman said, understanding dawning in his voice. “I suppose I can get behind that.”

Logan paused, slid a bookmark into his book, and stood, cradling his book against his chest. “I believe it’s time for me to get to sleep. You all should too.”

“In a little while, Specs,” Roman said, waving him off, and Patton squeaked out a little “Love you Lo!” as Virgil muttered “night,” attention mostly on his screen.

There was the sound of footsteps softly plodding away, the consistent rhythm of Logan stepping lightly up the stairs, and the sound of his door opening.

And then a loud bump.

Virgil shot a glance to the stairwell, and Patton and Roman ceased their conversation, glancing towards the stairs.

“Logan?” Virgil called cautiously. “You okay?”

A long pause. Virgil felt his shoulders climbing to his ears. _Fuck. Fuck, Logan fell, and he hit his head, and he’s unconscious and bleeding and he’ll have a concussion and he’ll **hate**  it and we’ll be out logical decision making and what will that do to—_

“Logan?” Patton called, concern laced through his voice, and Virgil is ready to storm up the stairs himself, Logan’s privacy be damned.

“Fine,” Logan’s voice finally floated down the stairs, and Virgil felt his shoulders relax. “Just dropped a book.”

“Don’t stay up to late reading, all right?” Patton said loudly, directing a firm fatherly glance towards the stairs, and there was no response. Patton let out a good-natured sigh.

“That _boy._  Smart as he is, sometimes I think he never learns,” Patton tutted. 

“Tells us all about the importance of sleep and turns around and stays up till four because he has to find out the migratory pattern of starlings,” Roman agreed with a huff.

Virgil considered going to claim Logan’s vacated armchair, but decided against it. He’s comfy on the windowsill. Mostly.

Patton and Roman resumed talking in low voices about the dramas of Roman’s realm, which Virgil let slide in one ear and out the other; he’s mostly just trying to figure out if there’s a specific tag he’s going to lose himself in tonight or if he’ll swap social media platforms to get some more #relatable content.

Virgil shuddered, and was immensely grateful he did not say that sentence aloud.

Eventually, Patton tapped at Roman’s ankle again, and said, “Well. I think I’m gonna head in, you two, don’t stay up too late, all right?”

“I might go with you, actually,” Roman said musingly. “I want to look over a script idea—“

“I said _don’t stay up too late,”_ Patton said, mockingly threatening, and reached out to tousle Virgil’s hair. “You too, kiddo, I don’t want you falling asleep here and getting a crick in your neck.”

Virgil allowed the hair tousling with minimal grimacing, and made a vague, inarticulate mumble, waving Patton off, who sighed but started walking with Roman anyways, their footsteps softly plodding away.

Virgil had just leaned against the window when he heard a thud, and a startled cry, and Virgil leapt to his feet, heart pounding in his chest.

“Pat?” He called, trying not to sound too desperate. _Is it a prank? Patton wouldn’t make a joke like this but what else could be—_  “Roman?”

Another thud, and then—unmistakably, Roman, loud and sharp and clear and — _afraid_ —”VIRGIL, IT’S—”

Silence.

“Roman,” Virgil called, and louder, “ _Patton.”_  He jerked towards the hallway, a hand on the frame, swinging to look down the hall.

The lights were off, the only distant lights from the cracks under the doors. Virgil swallowed, _there are no monsters in the dark,_ and said, “You guys? You there?”

He carefully flicked on the lights, and tried to avoid grimacing at the sight of the stark contrast between the soft glow of the living room and the plain, harsh lighting of the hallway.

“If this is a joke, it’s not funny,” Virgil cautioned, walking down the hallway. “I mean it, Roman, it’s—“

* * *

Virgil dreamt of light. Footsteps echoing. A shadow swooping in the hallway he didn’t notice too late, like a shadow puppet show along a wall, except shadow puppets were Patton’s thing that happened safely under blankets with giggles and bunnies and crocodiles, not strange sweeping figures that were straight out of horror films. A prick, a needle, something against his neck and a hand over his mouth and the way Virgil had _panicked_ , fingernails digging sharp into cloth and clawing and the world had tilted and fuzzed and—

Virgil woke, panting desperately, a hand clutching at his neck, sitting up, feeling dizzy as he looked around.

The couch. He was on the couch, in the living room. The fairy lights were still on, but someone must have turned out the lamp. Virgil tried taking a deep, even breath.

_Dream. It was just a dream. You fell asleep out here and Patton moved you to the couch so you wouldn’t get a crick in your neck._

Except.

Except Patton would have put a blanket over him. All of the other sides had put blankets over him and nudged pillows under his head if he fell asleep in some place inconvenient. He had just been dumped on the couch, and—

_and his hoodie was gone._

Virgil gulped, fingernails scratching along the downy hairs of his bare forearms. His _hoodie._  His hoodie. Where was it? None of the sides would take it off of him without his permission. _None_  of them would, even with the sweaters they’d at least replaced it with something similar in weight and comfort.

Virgil was left in his threadbare purple t-shirt and a pair of jeans. There was no comforting weight on his shoulders, or fleece he could feel against his skin to help him ground himself, or a hood to draw up over his head if the light got too intense, or sweater paws he could worry between his fingers instead of picking at his nails—

Virgil forced himself to take a breath in, out, and thought _right. okay. I need to find someone else, I need to ask if they know where the hoodie is._

The next, well, _logical_  step is to go find Logan. He doesn’t grasp emotions very well; he might have brought it to Virgil’s room and folded it, that might be all, because Logan likes things to be organized and neat and in their place. That might be all this is.

He tried to convince himself of that as he slowly climbed up the stairs, but the absence of his hoodie has thrown him all kinds of off-kilter. No blanket, no hoodie. Virgil ran cold or warm consistently and even if he was sweating in the midst of an adrenaline response, he always, _always_  wanted his hoodie. Now, he can see the goosebumps raising the hair on his arms, the odd little bumps on his skin. He roughly ran his palms up and down his arms, trying to give himself some kind of physical sensation to focus on.

He knocked at Logan’s door, starting with “Lo—” that cut off as the door swung open as soon as his fist made contact.

_Logan always makes sure his door is either fully open or shut, he hates having it just cracked open,_  something whispered in the back of his head, and Virgil tried his best not to shudder, walking into Logan’s darkened room.

“Logan?” Virgil asked, soft, conscious that Logan might be asleep. He glanced towards his desk (empty) and reached, flicking on the lights.

As soon as the light flooded on, a loud, horrible screeching did too, deafening, and Virgil yelled out of surprise, stumbling back so his back thudded against the wall hard enough to dislodge a picture frame, hands flying to his ears.

He _knew_  this noise—it was dial-up internet, the unerring whine, the claxon alarm, and Virgil fumbled, shutting the lights off again.

Swamped by blackness, the sudden silence was jarring, and Virgil let out a shaky breath, removing his hands from his ears cautiously.

“Logan,” he said, firm, because if Logan had been asleep he _certainly_  wasn’t now. 

_Logan would never booby-trap his own lights. He only ever works without them on to fool Patton into thinking he’s sleeping._

_“Logan,”_  he repeated, a desperate edge in his voice. “C’mon, dude, are you in here?”

He fumbled forwards, even, to press against Logan’s unmade sheets, just to be really sure. His hand met nothing but Logan’s pillows, and he pressed on the other side, where Logan usually slept, and—

Virgil frowned. 

_Logan doesn’t sleep with things in his bed. That’s what bedside tables are for. He wouldn’t put a—a book, or a... what is this?_

Smooth, he could feel it. Wooden.

Virgil picked it up, and squinted at it in the dark, and very nearly dropped it, or he would have, if it wasn’t for the string tangled around his wrist that made it jerk, stopping just short of the floor.

Virgil inhaled shakily, and lifted it to eye level again.

It looked like it had been made almost... _lovingly,_  a long time ago, but it was so battered and worn now that it just made it look rather sad. The head was flopping back because Virgil was holding it by the wrist, and Virgil shuddered at the sight of blank black glued-on button eyes, a strip of shiny metallic duct tape over where the mouth would be.

“Okay,” Virgil whispered, and wished desperately for his hoodie pocket to tuck the stupid puppet into, to protect it, somehow, or perhaps somewhere safe to put it so it could be far out of Virgil’s eyesight. “What the fuck.”

_Marionette._ That was the word. The puppets that you could make dance. Virgil carefully untangled the string from his wrist, bile rising in his throat, before he carefully laid it down into Logan’s bed again, hands shaking just slightly. 

_Patton._  Patton might have taken the hoodie, and yes, Virgil was clinging to the hoodie excuse, because the loud wailing of the dial-up and the fact that he’d been alone and the fucking _puppet_  and the brief dream-memories from before were pointing to something that Virgil frankly refused to contemplate, to allow himself to lean into that kind of fatalistic thinking, because it would be fatalistic and he had been doing better and Patton would _help him_.

Virgil took a deep breath, and refused the urge to take the Logan puppet with him. Even though bringing along a creepy facsimile of Logan sounded better than going out alone. He hesitated, before he reached forwards to hesitantly touch at the duct tape at puppet-Logan’s mouth.

He needed to go to Patton’s room. Right now. 

He walked alone, in the dark, and had no desire to turn on the lights.

Virgil opened Patton’s door without knocking, because Patton had drilled that into him if he ever needed help he never ever needed to knock not even once, to just walk in and whatever Patton was doing would be able to wait unless he had an emergency. 

His lights were off, but he had the floaty little fairy lights on in his room, painting it in that sleepy glowing haze, and Virgil could already see that Patton was not at his desk, or in his bed, or at his bookshelf, but something else was hanging by its wrists from the cabinet Patton kept all his photo albums in.

Another puppet. Blue shirt. Gray fabric slung lazily around the shoulders, in danger of slipping off, and Virgil walked forwards, swallowing more and more.

The strings were so horribly tangled that Virgil had no hope of untangling the knots if he stood here for thirty minutes. The horrible bright painted-on smile, the cartoonishly innocent pink circles of a blush on the puppet’s cheeks, seemed so incongruent to the way the puppet was all tangled up in its own string, a childish game of hangman painted dark and foreboding. Its head was flopping sadly downwards, tilted to the side, and Virgil shuddered.

This wasn’t fatalistic, anymore. This was not fatalistic. Someone had made creepy fucking puppets and laid them purposefully in each of their rooms for _Virgil_  to find and laid _Virgil_  out on the couch and taken _Virgil’s_  hoodie. Someone had put duct tape over puppet-Logan’s mouth and someone had tangled up puppet-Patton so he looked like a fucking prisoner dangling in a dungeon.

Something was horribly, desperately wrong, and Virgil was the only up and around to investigate, to fix it, unless—

Unless.

Roman’s room, then. Virgil swallowed as he turned to enter the hallway, remembering the memory—because it _had_  to be a memory now, didn’t it—

Virgil felt something crack under his foot. He closed his eyes, and clenched his shaking fists, because he could tell without even looking what it was.

Virgil opened his eyes, and looked down, even though he desperately didn’t want to.

The button eyes and lopsided smirk of the Roman puppet stared accusingly up at him from where his chest was crushed under Virgil’s foot. Virgil knelt and picked it up, swallowing, and attempted to dust off the outfit—white shirt, red sash around his chest. There was a crown on his hair, and Virgil shook to reach and touch it, straighten it on his hair, because even a puppet version of Roman would hate to look undignified.

“Sorry,” he told it, and winced as he saw where his shoe left a mark on the white shirt. “M’sorry.”

“Oh, he can absolutely hear you, Virgil,” a familiar voice said behind him, and Virgil’s grip tightened on the puppet, nails digging into it. He did not get up from where he knelt, and he did not look back.

“You fucking bastard,” Virgil told the blank button eyes of Roman, grip tightening. “You piece of fucking _shit.”_

“It’s not at _all_  stupid of you to be talking to a _puppet_ , of all things,” Deceit continued. “Is it too subtle a detail? It was between this or some voodoo dolls. I know how much you love needles.”

Virgil thought of needles stuck through eyes, pinning puppet-Patton against a wall or puppet-Logan to his bed, and he thought his fingernails might break from how tightly he was digging them into puppet-Roman’s shirt, meeting the unforgiving wood underneath. 

“It’s a _very_  scintillating conversation to just speak to your back, Virgil,” Deceit said, and Virgil could not help but think of what must have happened the last time he had his back to Deceit, and he had _failed_ , he hadn’t protected them, he’d been knocked out and—

“Logan didn’t drop a book.”

Deceit hummed, and Virgil gritted his teeth, because this was the piece of Deceit that was the most difficult to decipher; the half-truths, the almost-lies, the noncommittal gestures and tones. To lie was fairly black and white; to _deceive_  held all kinds of shades of gray.

“Where are they,” Virgil growled, at last turning to look over his shoulder, and Deceit was a bizarre figure in the doorway, face shaded and clouded by his hat, yellow gloves catching the light bright and obnoxious, and Deceit spread his arms.

“Maybe they’re safe and sound, and you’re the I’ve decided to play with,” Deceit said. “Maybe Patton’s all tied up and strangling himself trying to reach the sword that’s only a foot away to save Roman, the poor stupid thing.” 

There was a loud _crack_  and Virgil started, head spinning back to his hands, because the Roman had puppet had cracked and split into two and dropped aside and Virgil was holding the  _something_  that had been inside it, something wrapping its way tight around his wrists. Virgil dropped the thing and attempted forcing his wrists apart, attempting to break free, scrambling away from the strings advancing on him, inadvertently going towards Deceit as he continued.

“Maybe they’re trying to run from a monster, but they have to keep slowing down because Logan got himself bit on the leg. Blood leaves a _horrible_ trail for monsters, you know.”  

The dark black strings had twined their way up his bare arms, over his chest, around his neck, making him strain for air, mouth opening wide and sucking in as much air as he possibly could get, even as he tried to squirm free.

“Get it off,” Virgil choked, pride gone, because he couldn’t move his legs he couldn’t move away from it he couldn’t break free he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t. “Getitoffgetitoffgetit _off_ —“

“ _Maybe,”_ Deceit continued over Virgil’s panicked demands, “I’ll just take _this—”_ and with a twist of his fingers Virgil started straining towards Deceit even more, because that was his hoodie _,_   _his_  hoodie, hanging from Deceit’s fingers like it disgusted him, like it was dirtybadwrong—

“—and I’ll stand and sulk in the corner, because that just must be so _hard_  for you, _Anxiety_ , I don’t know how I’d _ever_  do that.”

“Don’t _call_  me that,” Virgil spat out, even as he tried jerking his whole body out of the restraints, trying to kick free—

“Maybe I’ll even set this on fire just in time for the others to come down the stairs and see it crumbling to ash! Goodness, that would be just so _sad_ , wouldn’t it, seeing that big lump’s face just _crumple up,_  I don’t know if I could stand it _—”_

The strings had managed to come up over his mouth, now, and Virgil could only snarl wordless threats at Deceit as he struggled, and Deceit cackled, yellow eye glinting in the light, and he dropped the hoodie into nothing at all, making it vanish.

"Goodness, Virgil, I must say, you'll do such a good job  _protecting_ them from here."

Deceit stepped back, into the dark, and Virgil could see the smirking sneer as he prepared to close the door, about to leave Virgil to struggle useless and alone in the bright lights of the hallway.

“Don’t worry, Virgil,” Deceit purred. “I won’t hurt them.”


	2. logan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Logan even opened his eyes, he was aware that there was something wrong. Usually, he did not subscribe to such vague thinking (that was more Virgil’s expertise) but to be fair, Logan was still shaking off the affects of unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally, this was going to be a one-shot. but then a lot of people screamed at me and I thought of some plot points, so, here we are.

Before Logan even opened his eyes, he was aware that there was something wrong. Usually, he did not subscribe to such vague thinking (that was more Virgil’s expertise) but to be fair, Logan was still shaking off the affects of unconsciousness.

Logan blinked, and stretched his eyes open, turning his head to one side, and then the other.

He was not in his bed.

As a matter of fact, Logan could not recall if he ever made it up to his bed. The odd filminess on his teeth would indicate that he did not brush his teeth, which was unusual, to say the least. Logan attempted to follow cleanliness and hygiene routines as closely as he possibly could, only barred by emergency or unforeseen conflicts. 

Logan carefully levied himself up on his elbows and his vision swam sickeningly, for a moment, nearly making him buckle back so he was laying flat on his back again, but he screwed his eyes shut and took even, shallow breaths. He felt... queasy, as if he was about to be sick, but more than that, as if he had low blood sugar, as well. Dizzy and dazed. He waited until he felt a little more settled, and cautiously, slowly opened his eyes again.

Logan paused, and blinked again, fingers reaching up to find that he was bereft of his glasses. It still did not explain the sight in front of him, and so he slowly sat up, noting distantly that he had at least managed to take off his tie before he slept. He carefully lifted himself to his feet, stumbling forwards and squinting out at his surroundings.

Perhaps one of the things that had contributed to the _something is wrong_  mindset he had held before waking was the fact that he had apparently fallen asleep on top of a very steep hill.

From what Logan could see, there was approximately nothing he could recognize as being within the usual radius of their house, and Logan was reliably certain that his last memory had been from their home; he had been sitting in the living room. He had wanted to go to bed. He was missing a link between climbing the stairs and waking up on a hilltop. 

Logan narrowed his eyes, attempting to make sense of his surroundings. The landscape was, simply, nonsensical; to his right, a thick swath of forest that seemed to be made up by a variety of trees, in a variety of stages of shedding and growing leaves, as if each tree was trapped within its own season. The forest cut off abruptly, opening to the meadow directly in front of him, full of tall, sweeping grass that bent and folded under a breeze that Logan could not feel. The plain just as suddenly delved into a swamp, and Logan could see the distant sheen of a muddy pond before it was hidden by foliage. 

Logan frowned, and bent, plucking up a blade of grass, holding it up in his hand. Completely stationary.

Logan walked forwards, down the hill a couple steps, and watched as the blade began to move in the wind. A step back, and it did not falter, and half a step more, it stopped. Logan frowned deeper.

Wind was not nearly so inconsistent within that close a range. The forest division, the placement of the plain, it almost looked manmade, except even mankind could not make a meadow sit so prettily beside a swamp, and—

Logan felt rather abruptly foolish.

He could not make sense of his surroundings, he did not recall how he had gotten here, and the landscape was nonsensical. Granted, this had never been Logan’s particular domain, but he had heard enough about it from Roman, and to a lesser degree from Patton, and, even more rarely, from Virgil.

This must be the subconscious.

How did Logan, the personification of logic, get into the subconscious? This was a realm none of them explored apart from dreams, and Logan played no part in dreams, daydreaming or otherwise. He frowned, and extended his arm forwards, pinching it hard, intent on waking up wherever he had managed to fall asleep.

Except nothing happened. Logan remained on the hilltop. He frowned, and pinched even harder, blunt nails digging into his own skin, and there was nothing, except for pain.

Rephrase previous question: how did Logan, the personification of logic, get _stuck_  in the subconscious? And how could he get out?

Logan wished for his glasses, just so he would be able to see at full capacity, to get the best layout of his surroundings. But this was the subconscious; it was just as likely that if Logan memorized the terrain, it would swap and shift on him with barely a whisper, leaving him just as flatfooted and unprepared if he moved off of the hilltop now. 

The subconscious was full of abstract thoughts, things that were difficult to pin down, and as such, landscapes, buildings, structures, they all represented _something_ here, something that was too psychologically complex to physically actualize. The forest could be full of representations, the swamp full of symbolisms, and Logan was loathe to go off on his own to make sense of all of it. 

But his other option was to sit and wait, alone on the hilltop, to look out and observe, and that option was shot _._ Even if the terrain would shuffle, it wasn’t like he had adequate observational tools—the only option to progress was to move forward, into the wind, and into the meadow.

Logan took a moment, to survey the hilltop once more, just to see if there were any clues, and allowed himself a brief smile as he spotted his glasses, laying mostly obscured in the grass. Well, at least now he could see at full capacity, that was an improvement. He took advantage of his now corrected eyesight, and took a moment to look over the landscape before making his way down to the meadow. 

The swamp, to his left. The forest, to his right. In the distance, they seemed to converge, the two landscapes circling the meadow, the hilltop. He turned slowly on his feet to confirm that, yes, he seemed to be in the epicenter—of what, he still wasn’t certain. There must be more lying beyond the edges of the forest, the swamp, and Logan could see distant hills (too small to be classified as mountains, and yet they seemed to tower so far above that hills felt too diminutive a term) like the one he was standing on. Perhaps it was made up of neighboring circles, each environment holding... something. Something important, something dangerous, something complex.

Something that could not be logically understood without study.

Logan took a breath, in, out, and began to walk down the hill.

The wind whipped into his face, harsher and colder than expected, and Logan resisted the urge to raise his hands to shield his face from it; it felt like it was coming at him from all directions, as if Logan was attracting it, some kind of magnetic being that drew wind rather than functioning with the magnetic field. He squinted against the tears springing to his eyes (natural and uncontrollable: triggered by dry eyes, increased evaporation from the top layers of the cornea) and continued on, careful not to trip and fall his way down the steep slope. 

He was about halfway down the hill when he heard the distant rumble.

Logan, squinting, turned his face to the sky, which was still the same shade of blue as it had been when Logan first awoke, but with a collection of rapidly darkening clouds gathered directly above him. Logan would dispute the logic of a storm _above him and him alone,_  but this was the subconscious.

It took him until he saw the rapidly gathering light behind the clouds and the hairs raising on his arms that he recalled what usually came _before_  thunder.

Logan, pride gone, threw himself down the hill, rolling down a rush of knees and elbows and his twisting torso, at last sprawling on the flat ground, flattening to the ground and covering his ears, eyes squeezing shut, when—

There was the rush of brightening light, white flaring behind his eyelids, and the scent of ozone—

And in the next breath, the scent of mulch. 

Logan blinked, and opened his eyes, fingers digging in. Because yes, that was mulch, and dirt, and instead of being sprawled out in the meadow in the midst of an impossible storm, he had somehow landed in the midst of the forest, under a tree, no more increasing static electricity around him. This was the earth, beneath his fingers, and he had to set aside the fact that he had just _moved_  with no reason, because for the subconscious the first rule was that there _were_  no rules.

He just had to keep that in mind, and ensure that he... well. Attempt to figure out the logic of a place that dearly fought against any kind of logic.

With a glance around, he could assume that he was in the forest he had seen from the hilltop—some trees were lush with green leaves, and others looked like they were in the midst with the dead of winter, with budding and falling leaves sprinkled between.

The second thing that struck him was the cold.

On the hillside, especially with the wind, it had felt pleasant, perhaps a bit chilly; now, surrounded by the dense woods, it felt like he was in the depths of winter. If hypothermia or frostbite was possible within the frame of the subconscious, then he would want a coat. 

He grimaced, feeling his ears start to chill, and absentmindedly attempted to rub some feeling into them, about to start looking around, before he took a glance at his hand and noticed that there was a dark spot against it.

Logan frowned, and lifted his hands carefully to his head again, using all ten fingers to tap-press, until—

A sudden rush of _ache_  and _pain,_  and Logan had to catch his breath before bringing his other hand to carefully frame it. It met at a point, if there were lines drawn from his temple and left ear, and Logan frowned as he touched his fingers to his temple. He carefully scratched his fingers against it, and drew back his hand to see more of that rusty near-black substance under his nails.

Logan took deep, even, calm breaths, and again attempted to recall how he ended up on a hilltop. He recalled how long it took him to realize that this space was the subconscious. He recalled how dizzy he felt upon waking, the rush of nausea. He recalled how long it took him to find his glasses. He attempted to recall the gap in time between deciding to go to bed on waking up on a hilltop.

Logan took deep, even breaths, and said very calmly, “Fuck.”

 _This is not enough to diagnose a concussion_ , _and you are not exhibiting enough symptoms to make it truly a concern_ , he told himself. _The opinion of a medical professional would be better. But the fact of it is, you have somehow hit yourself on the head, or something has hit you on the head. _You are alone and stranded in the subconscious, with no plan on how to escape it, and presumably there is no one else here with you. A_ nd you have some symptoms that bear remarkable resemblance to a concussion. _

Louder, Logan repeated, “ _Fuck,”_  and the trees shuddered, as if admonishing him for his language. Logan angled a glower at them, because _anthropomorphic scolding trees_  were not what he wanted to deal with right now.

And then he realized that the leaves were not moving in the wind. And that there was no wind. The leaves and their branches were as silent as still as he was, as he strained his ears, as he kept his breathing quiet, eyes trained on the leaves.

The noise, again. Except he had been wrong; this was not the simple sound of something moving in the wind. Similar, from a distance. But it was closer now, and he could safely say that the sound was not the rustling of leaves.

Logan slowly, carefully got to his feet, turning carefully in a circle, scanning his surroundings. The noise had faded, only leaving the sound of Logan’s breathing, his heartbeat loud in his ears. 

For a moment, the world around him was quiet and still.

But something massive and dark burst through the trees, with a loud, unholy, caterwauling shriek, heading straight for him. Logan yelped, stumbling back and away, and began to run, nearly tripping over himself.

He did not get a particularly good look at whatever was chasing him, but he couldn’t particularly bring himself to care when he was running, arms pumping and legs stretching as far as they could, hoping desperately that his feet wouldn’t trip over bulging tree roots or a wayward creeper vine. 

Logan could give off approximate names of chemicals and physical effects of exercise, as well as fear, if given the time and space. It was a different thing entirely to study something than to experience it. The sensation of how it felt when his feet sunk just slightly into the loose dirt before pushing off, the way his heart pounded in his ears, the way his breath whooshed in and out of his lungs in an unsteady, noisy pace, the loud pace of the _thing_  behind him, clicking and shrieking still, the way Logan dug inside of himself to keep moving, to try to lose it—certainly he could try to calculate out the effect hearing the shriek closer and closer ( _Doppler effect)_  he could mention the chemicals involved in his decision ( _adrenaline, Logan had chosen flight)_  he could track his route and the angles of his path.

But there was no space in his head for any of that, only the need to escape, to get away, to put as much distance between himself and this creature as possible. 

But abruptly, as Logan’s left foot was lifting from the ground, about to propel him forwards, _something_  caught around his ankle, making Logan slam to the ground, scraping his hands and already cursing, attempting to jerk his foot back to stand only to wobble and collapse even further, to his stomach.

He lurched to sit upright, and noticed the creeper vine, wrapped tight around his ankle, and Logan cursed some more, wishing desperately for some kind of pocket knife as he reached down, trying to rip himself free.

But then it didn’t matter, as Logan was flattened onto his back, and got a too-clear look at what had been chasing him.

Bizarrely, his first thought was _Well, that’s just inaccurate._

He supposed it didn’t matter much, now that he, a figment of someone’s imagination, was about to be devoured (bitten?) by a massive spider monster from the same person’s imagination.

The spider’s fangs opened wide, and Logan took a breath in, closing his eyes.

“ _NO!”_

Very suddenly, there was an absence of weight on his chest, and Logan blinked, turning his head, where the spider monster was twitching, impaled through the meat of its body, pinned to a tree by a spear, and then turned his head towards where the sound had come from.

Or, at least, where it had been, as someone was grabbing his hands and hauling him to his feet already.

“Oh, _Logan_ ,” Patton said tearfully, and before Logan could do much other than gape, Patton was pulling him into a hug.

Logan froze, and allowed himself to close his eyes. Patton’s arms were tight around him, but not tight enough to be restrictive. The presence of more body heat was welcome in the chill, even as Logan felt his body temperature increased from his run. Patton’s nose was poking into Logan’s neck, and Logan feel his chest vibrate from the way Patton was humming, faint, one-noted, discordant. Distantly, Logan thought of one of the many cat facts that Patton had told him, the fact that cats purred, in part, to promote healing, and Logan could not bring himself to be surprised that this was a trait Patton would choose to emulate, unconsciously or consciously. It gave him something to breathe in time with, to slow his heart rate, to calm the chemical responses he’d had to danger.

At last, Logan allowed his hand to come down once, twice, onto Patton’s shoulder, and Patton withdrew, his hands on Logan’s shoulders.

“I would lecture you about the language, but it’s what led us to you in the first place,” Patton said, breathless. “Goodness, but are you all right?”

“Fine, fine,” Logan said, and added, locking eyes with Roman, “Since when have spears been part of your repertoire?” 

“Hello to you too, Niels Bohr-ing,” Roman said, cheerfully knocking Patton out of the way and tugging Logan into a back-slapping, swift embrace, pulling back just as suddenly as he’d approached, an informal little thing. “Aren’t you glad they are?”

Logan attempted to shift his weight, and nearly fell, Roman’s arms coming to catch him, hands on Logan’s forearms as Logan angled a scowl at his leg.

“Ankle,” Logan said, shaking trapped foot as an answer to the question left unasked, and said, grudgingly, “Could you...?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Roman said reassuringly, crouching and cutting Logan free. Logan tentatively set his weight on his foot, and let out a soft huff of air when there was no resulting pain. He had managed to evade a twisted ankle, then.

Logan looked up at the others, and noticed for the first time that Patton had a black eye, that he was wearing his polo but not his hoodie. Roman’s garment had been stripped of all gold, of his crests, leaving him with only his white tunic and red sash, bright and loud as ever. Logan frowned, and his fingers drifted up to where his tie would be.  

“I... hit my head,” Logan admitted. “I can’t remember how we got here.”

Patton and Roman exchanged concerned glances, and then Roman said, “We should get moving.”

“It doesn’t like it if we stay still too long,” Patton said, and continued forwards, as if that wasn’t a phrase that needed further explanation. Logan looked at Roman in askance, only hating that he was left in the dark a little.

“It was Deceit,” Roman said as they began to follow after Patton, and Logan—frowned. Because there was something about that statement that wasn’t _right,_  that would lurk at the back of his brain, that would wriggle until Logan actually solved it. But he did not have time.

“Deceit?”

“I saw him knock Patton out, and I tried to warn Virgil, but—I’m not sure if he heard me. The next thing I knew, we woke up here.”

“Virgil,” Logan repeated, frowning. “You two haven’t seen him?”

“No, we thought he might be with you,” Roman said, fiddling with his scabbard. “He wasn’t?”

“No, I was alone.” Logan said, and frowned. “There was a thunderstorm, but I that’s metaphorical, at best. I haven’t seen him.”

Patton, who must have paused ahead, fell into step on Roman’s other side. “He could have gotten away,” he said, twisting his hands together.

Logan hesitated, and said simply, “I suppose we won’t know. I don’t have enough information to theorize. Either he did, and he is trying to help us from afar, or he didn’t, and he is here with us and we haven’t found him yet.”

“How are we going to get out of here?” Logan asked Roman directly. “I tried the whole _pinch yourself_  cliché, but that clearly didn’t do anything.”

“I know you’re going to hate this answer,” Roman said, “but there’s rarely a straightforward way out of here. We could be questing to a specific location, we could have to get around some kind of obstacle, it might take eating some kind of fruit or jumping off a cliff—”

“We have no clear answer, no clear-cut plan, and we’re subject to the whims of dreams that are not yet definitively understood by science or psychology, that’s what you’re saying,” Logan said, curt, as Patton’s quiet fretting fell to the wayside.

“In your terms, sure.”

Logan huffed out a breath, fighting the urge to pinch at the bridge of his nose as they progressed forwards. The cold curled uncomfortably under his shirt and their feet crunching down on a stray stick the only sound in the background. “Fantastic.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean _I_  don’t understand some of the things here,” Roman said, and Logan’s eyes narrowed.

“How do you mean.”

“I _mean_ , I’ve been here enough times that I know what dangers are most likely to appear, and what they could mean. We’re not flying _totally_ blind, here.” Roman said, and continued to gesticulate and explain as they continued forwards, Logan ready to pay attention. Even if the expert in this situation was Roman, it would be remiss to not absorb any information possible.

“You saw a thunderstorm, you said?” Roman said, and Logan nodded. 

“Well, it’s a bit... like poetry, or prose, I suppose. Storms in here tend to represent change, danger, turmoil. If it happened just after you woke up, or when you were trying to move forwards, it could have represented that something dark was to come. It depends on context, usually, and you just have to get better at reading some signs like that, like actual reading.” 

“And the spider. What does the spider mean?”

Roman hummed thoughtfully and said, “That one’s a bit more complex. When I’m here most of the time and one of those shows up, it doesn’t denote any particular emotion, or memory. It seems to exist to just make sure that you don’t stay in one place for too long. Which gets difficult, if you’re trapped, and you know you’re trapped, and you hear a horde of spiders creeping up on you.”

Logan anticipated some kind of squealing remark from Patton, then, and frowned when he didn’t hear one, at last turning to him.

Or where he had been. Logan’s hand shot out to grab Roman’s arm.

“Patton,” he said, urgent, when Roman looked back at him in askance, and Roman swore quietly, head whipping to where Patton had been walking before, and where there was currently no one.

He should have expected it, but somehow, it still surprised him when Roman turned on his heel, drawing his sword, and charged back through the forest, yelling Patton’s name.

Logan shook himself, and started off after him, feet pounding into the dirt again, trying to pick some shade of blue out from the trees.

The moments seemed to stretch on for much longer than they would have been. Logan was familiar with the theory of time flying or slowing dependent on emotion; if his run from the spider felt like an instant, searching for Patton felt endless. There were impossible amounts of worry and fear and Virgil-esque _what if something’s happened to him_  crammed into the space of a single moment. They could not have walked more than less than a quarter of a mile, but Logan felt as if he had been running for a space of time comparable to a five kilometer race.

Logan could not help but think of all the threats here has not seen, the ones he had seen and did not understand, and the fact that Patton might have succumbed to them while Logan was silently despairing learning from Roman. They hadn’t even _realized_  when he had gone missing, when he had gone silent.  Roman’s sword glinted in the light, and Logan could hear the undisguised panic increasing in the way he screamed for Patton.

There was a loud, muffled noise to Logan’s right, and both Logan and Roman careened to face it.

“We’re coming, Patton!” Roman shouted, and there was another loud, muffled yell as they ran towards him, to Patton.

They crashed through the last of the brush, and both looked around, until a muffled yell sounded, and they both looked out and down. 

Patton was on the ground, struggling and fighting against the creeping vines that had crept down from the trees surrounding the clearing, curled around him, held him tight. Even as they bound tighter and tighter Patton kept squirming, trying to fight his way free, throwing his head aside even with the choked gasps that would occur after the vines around his neck tightened.

“Patton, _stop_ , you’re going to strangle yourself!” Roman shouted. 

Patton made another loud, pained noise, locking eyes with them and jerking his head, and Logan took a step forwards even as Roman grabbed his arm.

“Aren’t we going to rescue him?” Logan said, gesturing to Patton.

Roman shook his head, grip tightening on Logan’s arm. “The vines are worries and fears,” Roman said. “The only way to get him out is to calm him down, distract him, somehow. If we step on the vines, it’ll pick up on our worry and trap us too.”

Logan paused, and took a closer look at Patton. Patton, who had only calmed his squirming somewhat, and, Logan saw, had the telltale shades of eyeshadow under his eyes. Logan grudgingly took a step away from the trees, keeping clear of that particular plant life. “So how do you propose we help him?”

Roman paused, frowned, and said cajolingly, “Patton, you have to stop moving, okay? Think Devil’s Snare. It’ll only let you go once you stay still.”

Patton forcefully shut his eyes, and grew still. Logan saw his hands clench into fists.

“Good,” Roman said, glancing down at his feet to ensure that there were no vines, and took a tiny step forwards. “That’s good, Pat, okay. Now remember what Virgil taught us? Let’s take four seconds in.” He sucked in an exaggeratedly loud breath, and held it, before letting it whoosh out. Distantly, Logan could see Patton’s chest rise and fall in kind, and noticed the creepers begin to unwind from his ankles.

Roman continued to breathe, exaggeratedly loudly, peppered throughout with gentle affirmations and encouragements. Logan wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to ward off the cold while maintaining distance from the creeper vines, and watched in silence as the vines unwound from Patton’s ankles, his knees, his thighs, his arms, his hands, and at last his throat, the eyeshadow receding with each until the last vine around his mouth fell away, the vines slowly receding to the trees, and Patton lay panting in the midst of the clearing.

Logan tilted his head questioningly towards Patton, but Roman wasn’t looking at him, already bursting through the trees. Roman carefully helped Patton sit up as Logan caught up and looked over him with a more critical eye. Patton coughed, free hand rubbing at his throat.

“Are you all right?” Roman asked, his hand on Patton’s back, and Patton mutely lifted his hand from his throat, pointing towards something above them. Logan and Roman met eyes over Patton’s head, and then both turned to follow Patton’s gaze.

In the shadows of the tree’s canopy, easily missed, nestled in amongst the vines, was a small marionette of Virgil, hanging from the tree, limp apart from an arm, pointing in another direction.

Logan swallowed, and forced his eyes away from how the vines encapsulated the puppet’s throat, his eyes instead finding the flowering bruises on Patton’s neck. “It could be a trap,” Logan said.

“What choice do we have?” Roman asked, and Logan had no answer for him. Roman looked back down at Patton.

“Are you good to get up?”

Patton nodded, and Roman stood, pulling Patton along with him, leaving Logan to glance again at the marionette. At a distance, it was difficult to tell, but it seemed... beat-up, as if whoever had made it hadn’t been particularly careful with it, or perhaps had nicked and cracked the wood throughout its creation. Logan hoped that wasn’t transferrable to its subject matter.

“Okay,” Roman said, drawing his sword. “You two, behind me, we don’t know what’s out there.”

Logan sighed, but acquiesced. Roman had the weapon and the expertise; it would be foolish to charge out in front of him. Patton did, as well, but not before grabbing Logan’s hand and squeezing it tightly.

Logan supposed he couldn’t deny Patton this particular comfort; Logan hadn’t noticed when Patton had gone missing in the first place, it was the least he could do in an attempt to reciprocate, alleviate some of the way he was berating himself for being so unobservant.

Logan even squeezed back as they began to follow closely behind Roman.

It didn’t take a particularly long walk before Roman stopped abruptly in his tracks, Patton and Logan nearly bumping into him and coming abruptly still themselves, as if it was some sort of enchantment laid over them.

Virgil lay alone in the midst of the clearing. There did not seem to be any particular abnormal plant life, impossible monsters, or rapidly accumulating dangerous weather patterns. 

It was if Virgil had simply laid down to sleep in the midst of the clearing, if it wasn’t for the strands of skinny black rope twining Virgil up in patterns even more elaborate than the vines that had encapsulated Patton.

He did not look physically harmed, and Logan felt Patton’s hand go slack in his with relief.

It was as if with that, whatever trance that had fallen over them broke all at once; they all rushed forwards, regardless of whatever potential threats that were lying in wait, only conscious of the fact that Virgil was alone, and trapped, and within their sights.

Roman was the first to reach him, withdrawing a dagger from somewhere on his person and immediately diving in, cautious to keep the sharp edges away from any of Virgil’s unusually exposed skin—Virgil looked smaller, somehow, without the usual bulk of his hoodie—undoing the swaths of string as quickly as he could as Patton carefully cupped Virgil’s face, and as Logan looked him up and down for any obvious physical signs of injury.

“Virgil,” Patton creaked, and attempted to clear his throat. “Virgil, kiddo, can you hear me?” Logan glanced over in enough time to see Patton carefully sweep Virgil’s bangs away from his eyes. “We’re right here, sweetheart, are you okay?”

Roman carefully cut away the rope that had effectively gagged Virgil, moving to the rope that twined around his throat and across his chest, as Logan took one of Virgil’s wrists in his hands and frowned, attempting to estimate the likelihood of bruising.

There was a vague mumble, and all three of them froze, looking towards Virgil, who had stirred only slightly, turning his face towards Patton’s hand.

“Hey,” Patton said, a rush of air. “Hey, angel, that’s it, that’s good. Can you wake up for us? Roman’s just about done getting you all untied, and Logan’s right here, doing all his Logan-things. We could use your eye out for us, I was a bit silly and fell into a bit of trouble, but I bet with you here that wouldn’t happen.”

At last, the last of the rope fell away, and Virgil stirred again, Logan and Roman pressing up against Patton’s sides to keep an eye on Virgil’s face.

Virgil’s brow furrowed, and his eyes shut tighter, before they fluttered open and his pupils roamed from face to face.

“Oh, right,” Virgil said, sleepily, and cleared his throat. “Uh. Hey?”

“Hey,” Patton said, smiling, and Virgil frowned, hand coming up to carefully touch at the darkening marks on his throat.

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” Patton said, not waving him off, even as Logan and Roman both pulled back. “Are you okay, kiddo?”

“Deceit,” Virgil said, glower sharpening at the bruises on Patton’s throat, and he sat up, tilting Patton’s head this way and that, observing the bruising more clearly, and Logan said, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Virgil said, glaring still at the bruises on Patton’s throat, before looking back at Patton and immediately softening his gaze. “I’m fine, Pat, really.”

“Don’t want to rush you, fellas,” Roman said, “but, ah, we should probably get moving, here.”

“Roman’s likely correct,” Logan said, and stood first, wiping his hands off on his trousers before offering a hand up to Virgil. “It’ll be good to have your eye, Virgil.”

“Uh, thanks,” Virgil said, hand clasping over Logan’s, cool and dry, before Logan releases him once he’s certain Virgil’s gained his equilibrium. Virgil’s hands go to where his hood would usually rest against his collarbone, and he frowned, before smoothing his fingers carefully over the neckline of his raggedy t-shirt.

Logan could relate. If he had a moment to fidget, he would have found himself attempting to close his collar around his neck, as he didn’t have his tie. 

Except Virgil didn’t usually fidget with the hood of his hoodie; he usually fidgeted with the cuffs of the sleeves, or the stitching.

Logan paused, frowning, before Roman said, “Which way?” and Logan was forced to table the thought.

Eventually, they decided to make way to the meadow again, as none of them had been able to explore it and it might hold some kind of hint they had missed; Virgil remained quiet, glancing between them all, before he muttered a gruff affirmation.

Roman took the lead again, sword out, Patton beside him, leaving Virgil and Logan to fall into step together, Virgil’s arms crossing over his chest as he walked, already developing goosebumps in the cold.

“Deceit didn’t physically harm you?” Logan repeated, just to double-check, as Virgil had a history of hiding these sorts of matters.

Virgil shook his head, and repeated, voice slightly on edge, “I’m _fine.”_

Patton and Roman began to talk, too, in low voices, and Logan lowered his voice in kind.

“Did you get to talk to him? Did he say anything of importance?”

Virgil hesitated, and shook his head. “Nothing that mattered,” he mumbled. “Just, you know. Posturing, I guess.”

“Like what? Any clue could be helpful,” Logan prodded.

“God, Logan, does it matter?” Virgil said, frustration clearer in his voice. “It’s not like you could trust anything he says, anyways—“

Logan felt his brow crease. Virgil was being more elusive and confrontational than usual. He only did as such when he was frustrated, nervous, or angry. “Well, of course, but anything could—”

“It doesn’t _matter,”_  Virgil snapped. “Okay?”

Logan fell silent, and wished for his tie to adjust. “All right. Fine.”

Up ahead, Roman and Patton didn’t seem to hear anything suspect. They were talking as per usual; Logan listened in, as Virgil scowled at nearby trees and noises in the dark.

“So, what do you think’s going on here, kiddo?” Patton was asking. 

“Well,” Roman said, shrugging, “I guess the question is, what’s Deceit trying to do to us? He’s never done anything like this before.”

Logan blinked. An unusually insightful question and comment from Roman, and one that bore further reflection. One that had distantly occurred to Logan before he had to set the thought aside. 

What _was_  Deceit trying to do here?

Because Roman was also correct, Deceit had never done something to this scale before. He had been a nuisance in the past, worrisome, even, but never anything to the point of trapping the four sides with no visible way out. Physical entrapment barely seemed to fit Deceit’s usual methods.

Stealing Logan’s tie, Roman’s crests and gold, Patton’s and Virgil’s hoodies, that was fitting; that was removing a common, reliable factor and something emblematic of their personalities and responsibilities. Logan’s tie, Roman’s outfit, those outlined the status of their positions—Logan’s tie was representative of his serious nature, his quest for knowledge, whereas Roman’s gold, the crests, they were representative of his flashier nature, his status as a prince. 

Patton’s hoodie was a comfort item, bestowed by Logan himself; Virgil’s hoodie was a creation that had occurred after being accepted by the other four, a representation of showing a truer side of himself. It would make sense for Deceit to take these things, to knock them off kilter, to make them tense up, perhaps to even use them to taunt—it was the fact that they were all in subconscious seemingly at Deceit’s whim that got Logan stuck.

Nothing ever had trapped them in the subconscious together; perhaps a nightmare gone too far had managed it the times Logan had been here before, but the pinching trick had always worked. And a nightmare would be out of any of the given five sides’ control, regardless. 

....or perhaps Logan was looking at the wrong side of a nightmare entirely.

“Logan?” Patton asked, and Logan looked up from the ground at the other three sides, at a distance from him; it seemed that Logan had stopped walking when he had begun to think in earnest. 

“You okay, dude?” Virgil asked, and Logan’s eyes fixed on him.

"What did he say to you,” Logan repeated, and Virgil scowled at him.

“Seriously? Does it matter that much?”

“It could.”

There must be something in his voice, his face, that denoted how truly serious he was about this, because Virgil started fiddling with his neckline again as Patton and Roman exchanged glances.

“Just,” Virgil began, rubbing at the back of his neck (Virgil pinched at his nose or covered his face, rubbing the back of his neck was... wrong, somehow) “Just, stuff about how you guys might be hurting, okay? Stuff he might have done, might do, whatever.”

“And that’s it?” Logan said, skeptical, his own arms crossing over his chest.

The lines around Virgil’s mouth tightened, before he muttered, “Some stuff about how I couldn’t—protect you guys if I wasn’t with you.”

“And how did you get to _be_  with us, Virgil.” Logan said, fully aware that his voice was cold, and Patton said in a small voice, “Maybe we should—“

“No, Patton, this is important,” Logan said, sharp. “How did you _get_  here?”

Virgil’s mouth opened, shut, and he looked to Patton, before looking down at his feet. “I—I—”

“ _How_.” Logan pressed. “I’d prefer to figure out if it’s Virgil speaking, right now.”

Virgil’s head jerked up, and he demanded, “ _What?!”_

“Don’t deny that you’ve been acting strangely,” Logan snapped back. “The first words you said upon waking were _oh, right,_  not anything about where you were, what had happened, or any other questioning phrase. You bear no serious physical injury despite likely having the longest face-to-face confrontation with Deceit that any of us have had for months, if not years. You keep fidgeting with your neckline, and _Virgil_ does not fidget with his neckline.  _Virgil_  fidgets with his hands, hoodie, or face,  _not_  his neck. You’ve been acting increasingly elusive when it comes to answering questions about Deceit.”

“I’m—Logan, it’s _me,_  are you serious right now—?!”

“There are _piles_  of evidence that something is wrong about this, and very little of Deceit’s behavior—or Virgil’s, if you _are_ Virgil—makes sense. Deceit’s primary purpose is to _deceive,_  to conceal or misrepresent the truth, usually for purposes of personal advantage. Taking things that matter to us, that can be used to deceive, potentially. Splitting us apart and cornering us individually, fine, yes, that would fit within the usual parameters of his behavior. But putting us in the subconscious? _That_ doesn’t make sense.” Logan scoffed.

Virgil was curling smaller and smaller in on himself, and there was a part of Logan, the part that was still suspicious of Virgil’s intentions, his presence, the part that interpreted making someone smaller meant making them less of a threat, that thought _good_.

“The realm of Thomas’ mind that is not fully aware, but that influences actions and feelings? The aspect of the mind that is most associated with subconscious wants, fears, and _anxieties?_  The part of the mind that I have only ever gone to when there is a heavy influence of fear or some kind of pressure from some unresolved emotional issue? Sending _all_ of us subconscious, which is nowhere _near_  Deceit’s level of control, much less his realm of usual schemes? _That_ doesn’t make sense.”

“Logan,” Roman began, cautious, but Logan didn’t particularly care about his fanciful levels of input, not when he was trying to figure out an _answer_  for all of this.

“But do you know who is most closely associated with the subconscious? It doesn’t take particularly much to bring the number of sides down, considering the increased emphasis on _dark_  energy and threats within this nonsensical landscape, does it, _Virgil?”_

Virgil’s face screwed up, then, and he snarled, “You think this is _me?”_

“Boys,” Patton tried, and they both ignored him.

“Well, certainly not _entirely_  you,” Logan allotted, voice still nasty and sharp, “but it certainly isn’t entirely Deceit, either. What did he _say_ , Virgil? If you are—“

“I AM Virgil!” Virgil shouted, fists clenched, and Logan felt his own clench in kind.

“Is this an accident? Do you not realize you’re doing this? Did he threaten you, or—“

“This isn’t _me,”_  Virgil snarled, and Logan snarled back, “Well, then, what _is_  it? You would hardly be acting so bizarre if there wasn’t _something_  you were hiding, that wouldn’t make—“

Logan tried to finish his sentence, to say _sense,_  but he found he couldn’t. He tried to move, but he couldn’t, and he felt the other three’s eyes on him as Logan attempted to jerk back into movement, but he could not, from where the vines had soundly wrapped him up when he’d been arguing with Virgil.

 _Worries and fears,_  Logan recalled Roman say, and Logan felt his face screw up, attempted to wrench himself free from where he had been pinned against the trunk of a tree. 

“Okay,” Logan heard a familiar voice say, and Logan looked in front of him to see Patton, dangerously close to the vines, and Logan would yell at him to get away if he could _talk._  “Okay. It’s okay, Logan, I—okay,” Patton said, and hesitated, before carefully placing his hands on Logan’s cheeks, framing his face, paying no mind to the way the vines could ensnare him too.

“What’s 17 times 56?” Patton said, keeping his hands on Logan’s face, looking directly into his eyes, and the confusion was probably clear on his face, because Patton repeated, firm, “17 multiplied by 56, Logan, I know you can calculate that in your head.”

Logan didn’t see where Patton was going with this, but calculated it regardless. _952._

“Got it?” Patton said, and Logan nodded as much as he could. “Divide that by two.”

_476._

“Add 347.”

_823._

On and on it went, Patton sticking to the four basic mathematical operations, somehow maintaining to whole, positive numbers, until Logan was silently dividing 1,848 by 8 and Patton’s fingers swept carefully under his eyes, withdrawing his fingers to show them black eyeshadow-free.

“Good. Can you move for me?” Patton asked, stepping back just a little but keeping his hands on Logan’s face, grounding and warm. Logan brought his hands up to close his hands quietly over Patton’s wrists, and allowed himself to speak at last.

“They’re gone?”

Patton smiled, and said, “Looks like it. You did a good job, honey. Thank you for trusting me.”

Logan didn’t particularly think he’d done a good job. Logan thought fear and panic had forced him to jump to conclusions, and then to spit those conclusions at Virgil, with only his own conjectures and observations as “evidence.” Logan didn’t think he was particularly deserving of Patton’s warm glance, so Logan looked away, dropped his hands to his sides, and stepped out of Patton’s grasp, then out of his reach, and Roman and Virgil glanced over at him, Virgil much more warily.

“Okay now, Power-Pointdexter?” Roman asked.

“Fine,” Logan said, stiff, and then to Virgil, grudgingly, “Um. Sorry.”

Virgil shrugged, looking back to the ground, and Logan tried not to wince, but not before noticing that Virgil was fiddling with his neckline again.

“So,” Patton began, before Virgil burst out, “Wait.”

“We’ve been here for a long time,” Roman began, but Virgil’s fingers were digging under his neckline, carefully withdrawing something from under his shirt.

Logan frowned at it, and tilted his head. It was a pendant that seemed to glint a variety of colors in the low wintry light; it glimmered red one way, purple another, then blue, before looking a near-black navy. 

“What’s with the bling?” Roman prompted, and Virgil paused, before tucking it under his shirt.

“It’s... how I got here,” Virgil said, grudgingly. “Deceit, uh. He said it would get me here, and give one of us a chance out—“

“And you didn’t mention this _before,”_  Logan began heatedly, before Virgil continued, “but according to some terms.”

“What terms?” Patton asked, concerned, and Virgil fiddled with his neckline again—except, Logan thought now, it must have been with the necklace itself that held the shimmering pendant.

“He said,” Virgil began, and sighed. “He said since I was using it to get in, it would have to be... be the most useful of you three to be able to use it to get out. And that one would have to... stop him. But I think—” Virgil worried his lip between his teeth. “I think if that person fought him, then... the other three would be safe. Even if the other person lost, but, I mean, it’s Deceit, so. Who knows.”

Logan’s spine stiffened, and Roman said, “Well, most useful, that must be—”

“Deceit said _most_ useful, kiddo,” Patton said. “Which means it’s actually the... least.”

Roman swallowed, and said, “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh,”_ Virgil said, fidgeting, smoothing his fingers over his shirt again. “You can see why I didn’t bring it up.”

An uneasy silence fell over the group. The least useful, the most use _less,_  by association. Deceit had chosen between himself, Patton, and Roman. They were supposed to identify who was the most useless amongst them. Logan could hardly begin to start listing off the criteria of _usefulness,_  they all had different purposes, different areas importance with different priorities—

Patton broke it by clearing his throat, and saying, “Well, we’re not using it, then! We’re all getting out together, right?”

"Right,” Logan said, with Roman closely after, and Virgil looked relieved.

“Right, yeah,” he said, before smoothing his neckline one last time. “So, um. The meadow?”

“The meadow,” Roman agreed, hand on his scabbard. “Come on, Virgil, let’s go.”

Patton walked beside him as they followed after them, Logan’s head still spinning. The most useless, the least useful. How could that be selected? The three of them contributed things that were so different and yet so intrinsic to Thomas’ personality. The very notion of ranking them in those terms reviled Logan.

But did the risk outweigh the cost? If the person—who it would be, Logan didn’t know—but if the person went forwards and faced Deceit, then it would come at the safety of the other three. Was it worth it? Or was it another one of Deceit’s tricks? It was certainly working to twist Logan’s mind in knots.

As they walked, led on by Roman’s seemingly innate sense of direction, the world around them grew darker and thereby colder. Logan could still see the way that Patton’s nose and ears were growing redder, the way his likely were, and could feel the goosebumps ripple up and down his arms. 

He would assume that Virgil was exhibiting signs of cold, was shivering when Logan managed to look at his back, but found that he couldn’t stare too long, too overwhelmed by the way he had snapped at him, taken out all of his fear on Virgil. 

Ahead of them, he heard Roman sigh, and they all halted when he did.

“Just—hang on,” he grumbled, and Logan managed to look at Virgil’s back. Roman carefully divested himself of his sash, and frowned, turning the fabric over in his hands. With barely a sound of change, Logan noticed that it had been turned primarily to yarn, now half purple, and half red. He knew that particular style was known as an _infinity scarf,_  and it was mostly just a loop of fabric.

“You look so cold without the hoodie and your shivering is distracting me,” Roman said, by way of explanation, holding the sash-now-scarf in Virgil’s eyeline. “May I?”

Virgil nodded, mutely, and Roman carefully brought it down over his head, wrapping it around Virgil’s neck twice, before adjusting it, tugging and tucking in his own way so that it would fulfill Roman’s sense of aesthetic, before he smiled at Virgil.

“Better?”

“Warm,” Virgil allowed, burying his face into the scarf.

“Good,” Roman said, and it seemed odd to look at him, now, the way he was clothed in only white. Logan was so accustomed to the trifecta of color that leaving only one felt off-putting. Then, “Patton, Logan, would you come over here? I’m not sure if we should go right or left.”

Patton and Logan both stepped forwards, Logan positioning them so that Patton stood as a buffer between himself and Virgil, Roman on Logan’s other side. Logan squinted in the darkness down the paths; nearly identical, both bordered by trees.

“I’m not sure if direction matters, at this point,” Roman said, and Logan glanced over at him. “I mean, I know if we keep going this direction, we’ll hit the meadow eventually.”

“Unless it shuffles on us,” Virgil said.

Patton shrugged. “I think we’d be near a border regardless, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever spent so long in one specific terrain before.”

Logan had not stopped glancing at Roman. Because one of his hands was clenched, and one of them was hanging loose at his side. And the clenched hand had glimmering shades of red bleeding through the spaces in Roman’s fist.

Roman glanced at Logan, and there seemed to be some kind of message in his eyes; _distract them._

 _Does the benefit outweigh the cost?_  Logan asked himself, and he could not find an answer. But he supposed the option was out of his hands.

Logan took a deep breath, and turned back towards facing the paths. “Well, this is a different circumstance than usual,” he said, and prided himself on the fact that his voice did not waver or change. “I’m not sure—would you two look closer, I thought I saw something moving down the right path, did you?”

“Moving?” Virgil asked, suspicious. “In the dark? How clear did you see it?”

“Well, I’m not sure, that’s why I—“

But Logan’s distraction seemed to serve the amount of time Roman needed, because there was a loud noise, akin to breaking glass, and all three whirled around in enough time to see Roman remove his boot from where he had crushed the pendant under his foot.

“Roman,” Patton said, voice high-pitched in fear. “Roman, _no—”_

“What kind of prince would I be if I didn’t make some sort of grand, self-sacrificial gesture, hm?” Roman asked, and already from the crystal there seemed to be something forming, some great white light, blinding in the midst of the night. 

“Roman, you jerk, get back over here,” Virgil snarled. “I—we said _together_ —“

Roman was shaking his head, though, and the light grew and grew, at their height, taller, bathing Roman in it, his outfit catching the light, reflecting it.

“If you aren’t safe,” Roman said, “then what’s the point?”

“Roman,” Logan began, but he found he could not say any more, that he did not have the words, but Roman seemed to understand, nodding at him in a moment of pure understanding, of camaraderie, and with some kind of gratitude for allowing Logan to deceive the others, to potentially lead to Roman’s downfall.

He said, “It’s okay, Logan. It’ll be fine.”

“Roman,” the three of them said, in unison, Patton’s voice breaking into a sob, and Logan’s fingers wrapped tight around Patton’s wrist.

Roman smiled at them, a tremulous, tearful thing. The bright white light, grew, yawned wide, and blinkered out, taking Roman with it, leaving behind only blackness and the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr is [lovelylogans!](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com)


	3. patton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! .....so sorry for the wait, but life and school and so on. anyways we get why i always finish out a multichap fic before publishing now, right, _self?_

The sound that Patton made as the light swallowed up Roman in the blink of an eye didn’t sound very human.

He didn’t know what he sounded like, actually, only knew that the noise tore itself out of his throat like a punch. It hit his chest just as hard, too, made him feel like he was being knocked back, off of his feet; bowled over, out of breath, trying to gasp in some kind of sense, some kind of better reality. Because Roman, _sweet,_  creative, noisy Roman, was—

The last of the slightly stunned feeling faded with the light, and Patton was left blinking the last of it from his vision, between Virgil and Logan. When his vision cleared, all three of them made some kind of noise; Logan, a soft, easily missed gasp; Virgil, a barely bitten-back snarl; Patton, a high-pitched kind of whine as their eyes settled on what the light had left them, and Patton was already moving forwards when Virgil grabbed his arm, when Logan’s fingers tightened around his wrist.

“It could be a trap,” he said lowly, none of them looking away.

“I don’t care,” Patton said, but didn’t shake his arm free, like he so desperately wanted to, didn’t go forwards to—what? Grab it? Hug it? It wouldn’t do anything for them. It wouldn’t do anything for _Roman._

“Well,” Logan began, hesitant, “...you have a point, but we did find yours, which led to finding _Virgil_  again.”

Patton offered a sidelong glance to Logan, but couldn’t really, properly tear his gaze away from the doll, painted smile on its face, the crown nearly fallen out of its hair, sitting up, limbs sprawling limply about. Roman would never sit like that. Even when he slouched, he slouched with purpose, precise arm placement and daintily crossed ankles. 

It felt almost as wrong as seeing the Virgil one, tied up in a tree, when Virgil had always _hated_  climbing trees, too worried about breaking an arm or a leg or their _neck_. The only way the Virgil one won out was the fact that it was _tied up_.

“Well, I found _this one,_  and that led to me being tied up for hours on end before I had to make a deal with Deceit,” Virgil said, voice tight, “So yeah. I’m a _bit_  cautious about it.”

Patton chewed at his lip, and said, voice small, “I can’t just— _leave_  it.”

“Patton,” Logan began, edged in an exasperated sigh, and Patton at last took a step forwards, Virgil letting go of his arm at last.

“ _Patton.”_  Virgil said, but didn’t move to grab Patton’s arm again.

Patton tried his best to talk without sounding too sniffly, and wasn’t sure if he succeeded. “If it’s a clue, I’m not leaving it. If it’s not a clue, I’m still not leaving it.”

“What will it _help,_  Patton?” Logan snapped, exasperation spilling over as Patton moved to kneel in the grass, examining it. “What possible function could bringing along a glorified taunt have?”

“What choice do we have?” Patton said, faint, and he couldn’t help but recall Roman’s exact words (hours? minutes? days? time was evasive at best) before, and he could see the way Logan’s face looked without having to even turn around; the way his shoulders would slump, just so, his hand dropping to his side, the way the corners of his mouth would tighten and his eyes would soften as much as Logan knew how—and the fact that Logan said nothing meant that he wouldn’t stop him. No one would.

Patton took a breath in, and out, and reached out to the puppet. 

With a discordant whine like speaker feedback, and a bright flash of white, Patton found his knees starting to feel wet, sinking slightly deeper, and he blinked the white from his eyes again, looking around.

“The swamp,” Logan said, and Virgil and Patton exchanged glances, then looked to Logan as he continued, “I saw it on the hilltop. Are you two... familiar with this locale?”

“Patton more than me,” Virgil said, and Patton swallowed, rising to his feet, and blinked.

The puppet had gone. But the crown had remained—not on the ground, but enclosed around Patton’s right wrist, like a bangle.

Or a shackle.

“Memories,” Patton said. “The swamp’s full of emotions and memories.”

Logan paused, blinked, and looked around at the vegetation, then back at Patton, who frowned, trying to piece together the words to explain it in a way that Logan would accept.

“Okay,” Patton said, twisting the bangle over and over his wrist, glancing at the way Virgil was adjusting the scarf. “Um. Swamps are all wetland, right?”

“Yes,” Logan said, frowning. “Usually associated with slow-moving or stagnant water. Historically, humans have drained swamps for access to more land for agriculture, or from fear of diseases borne by swamp insects. They have a reputation for being unproductive for human purposes, though they often provide breeding grounds for a wide variety of life, as well as being important sources of fresh water and oxygen. Swamps are often common in Florida—”

“Right, yeah,” Virgil said, rubbing his nose. “So swamps are basically not very nice places, but they’re important environments, right?”

“Right,” Logan agreed.

Patton twisted the bangle again and again, watching the way the gold caught the low light. “Emotions are kind of the same way. Memories too. They’re... confusing, and hard to navigate even at the best of times. And some people prefer to attempt to make them more useful for their personal agenda. Right?”

“The phenomena of manufactured memories,“ Logan said, adjusting his glasses. “Memory is notoriously unreliable, and much of it is still being learned about today. For instance, flashbulb memory—usually a highly detailed, emotionally charged event that someone can remember as if there was a photograph, hence the name. But much like a physical copy of a photograph, flashbulb memories can deteriorate over time—though someone may think they recall everything as clearly as if it just happened, the details fade.” Logan paused, and added, “Is that how you meant?”

“Well, yes and no,” Patton said, shifting. “I don’t come here often, and when I do it’s almost always confusing. But you know how sometimes when you look one way at a memory, it’s really happy, and another way, it’s really sad?”

“No.” Logan said blankly.

Patton paused, chewing his lip, and Virgil picked up the slack.

“Okay, well, you know how swamps can be really good for oxygen and water and all that other stuff you said, but people drain ‘em anyways? For other reasons.”

“Yes.”

“Memory can be kind of the same way,” Virgil said, and tilted his chin at Patton. “Me and Pat may remember something completely different. Patton might look back on an event with a friend and remember how happy it was, but I might look back at it and remember the awkward things we did instead. And you might just see the work we missed by going out, and Roman—“

He fell abruptly silent, and plucked at the threads of the scarf, and muttered, “Well, you get the idea.”

Logan paused, and said, “Enough, I suppose. But _why_  bring us here?”

“It doesn’t follow reason down here,” Patton said with a shrug. 

“I am _painfully_  aware.” Logan groused. “What do we do now?”

“Patton just said it doesn’t follow reason,” Virgil said, lip drawing up into a sneer, voice defensive.

“I heard him, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make a _plan—”_

_“Stop.”  
_

The loudness of Patton’s surprised him; Logan and Virgil both immediately faltered, glancing over at him, and Patton swallowed, and repeated, softer, “You two have to stop.”

Virgil scowled a little; Logan adjusted his glasses.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Logan began.

“Yes, you do,” Patton said, and took a deep breath in, then let it out. “Look. We’re in the subconscious. We could fall into a trap any second. We can’t focus our energy on you two fighting. That’s stopping right now.”

They were both silent. Neither of them were looking at him, though, and Patton prompted, “Logan?”

“What?” He said, defensively.

“Is there something you’d like to say to Virgil?” Patton said, a bit pointedly. 

“Not... particularly?” Logan said, frowning. “What are you trying to have us do?”

Patton sighed. “Would you like to _apologize_  for the way you yelled at Virgil?”

“Oh,” Logan said, a few moments later than would be normal. “Ah. Yes. Virgil, I... apologize for the way I yelled at you. I thought I had substantive evidence, but, well, it was rather to the contrary. So. For that I am... sorry.”

Logan looked like the apology was being pulled out of him, word by agonizing word, but Logan also hated admitting to being wrong, so Patton figured he’d let it slide, for now.

“Virgil,” Patton prompted. “Is there something you’d like to say to Logan?”

“Do I have to?” Virgil muttered under his breath.

“Yes.”

Virgil huffed out a long, angry sigh, and mumbled at last, “I accept your apology. And, uh. I’m sorry for yelling back at you.”

“Oh,” Logan said, looking a little surprised. “Well. Ah. Apology accepted.”

Virgil turned to Patton, grimacing. “You’re not going to make us hug, are you?”

Patton shook his head, but before he could answer aloud, Logan extended a hand.

“I am sorry,” Logan repeated, lower, in a more genuine tone. Virgil blinked, looking surprised, before he stretched out his hand too. They clasped hands, and shook.

Patton clapped, once. “Okay! Good!”

“Good,” Virgil echoed, and their hands dropped. 

“So,” Logan said. “With that... done with, are there any particular dangers we should be wary of?”

Patton worried his lip between his teeth, and glanced at Virgil, and said, resigned, “You’ll probably, well. You’ll need to keep an eye on _me.”_

Virgil made a noise of realization, and Logan glanced between him and Patton, brow furrowing in frustration. Patton wished he could just smooth that out, sometimes, just reach out with his thumb and smooth away all the lines of worry and concern and frustration. But emotions weren’t that simple.

“Patton’s the heart,” Virgil said to Logan, voice pitched low, as if to spare Patton the sensation of wanting to squirm out of Logan’s focused gaze. “His room, remember? Too much nostalgia’s dangerous, and, well—”

“A swamp full of memories,” Logan said. “Yes, I understand how that could... spiral. For the pair of you.”

Patton glanced around, and said, “I’m just confused why we’re _here,_  that’s all. Because if Roman’s—” He cut himself off, and shuddered. 

“If Roman took the deal, the rest of us should be safe,” Virgil said. “According to Deceit. And, well, he’s _Deceit.”_

“That he is,” Logan agreed, and let out an angry huff. “I still find myself... perplexed, when attempting to work out his reasoning. How he did this at all, really.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Patton said, forcing his voice full of confidence against that sliver of doubt inside of him. “You always do.”

Logan simply sighed, and said, “Well. We shouldn’t stay still, I don’t want to risk the spiders without any weapons.”

Patton shuddered, and picked up the pace, heading, randomly, to his left. “This way, then!”

“Did you _have_  to bring up the spiders?” Patton heard Virgil grumble in an undertone, but mostly tuned it out, traipsing through the swamp as best he could, feeling his shoes sink into the mud with every step he took. 

“It’s a viable concern,” Logan huffed. “One I’d think you—“

“Well, _yeah,_  but that doesn’t mean I think about it all the time,” Virgil grumbled. “When it comes to those, actually, not thinking about it’s the best way forwards.”

“Forward, singular,” Logan corrected, sounding absentminded. “Well, technically both, but the singular forward is more common to the American English vernacular.”

Virgil let out a huff that might have contained a laugh. “Getting knocked out’s done nothing to stop you, then.”

“Knocked out,” Logan grumbled, even as Patton fell back to step in line with them, all three of them brushing arms, sticking close against the memory, the threat. 

“I... I keep turning it all around in my head,” Logan said. “Something’s not clicking, there’s something I’m missing.”

“Talk it out with us,”Patton suggested, gentle. “It’ll... well, not keep our minds off it, but—”

“Right, yeah, you can explain why you thought I was a fake,” Virgil said, tucking his hands into his jean pockets, and Logan sighed, smoothed at his shirt’s collar. Patton wondered if he missed his tie the way Patton missed his hoodie.

Logan took a deep breath in, out, and began to talk; one of the most reassuring and constant sounds of Patton’s life. If Logan was explaining, that meant things were gonna be fine. Because they’d always figure things out.

“I first began to suspect after Roman killed the spider. Roman said _it was Deceit,_  as if it was a foregone conclusion. But there was something... not quite right about it. Even you, Virgil, when we first found you, you said it was Deceit. I don’t doubt he somehow played a hand in all of this, but I find myself curious as to... well, if he’s the _only_  hand in all of this, if that makes sense.”

Patton blinked. “There’s someone else?”

“I’m not sure,” Logan admitted. “I... well, apologies again, Virgil, but I thought that considering this... area, I thought that, perhaps, you would be involved. Deceit’s never done something to this scale of separation and entrapment. Stealing things from us, that’s acceptable; trapping us, even, that might make a bit of sense, to weaken our personal resolves, to be more inclined to listen to him. But _this?_  Entrapping us in the dreamscape, with a frankly absurd number of traps, and dangers, and fears brought to fruition?”

“You said this before,” Patton prompted. “That it doesn’t make sense.”

“Precisely,” Logan said. “It _doesn’t._  Which is why...”

“Someone who handles fear might step in,” Virgil said, and let out a gusting sigh. “Almost makes sense.”

“Right,” Logan agreed. “Except, clearly, that theory is incorrect.”

“So go back a few steps,” Patton prompted, and Logan huffed out a breath.

“Well, that’s it. The only theory I have is that Deceit is doing something here. To what end, I don’t know, how, I don’t know, and why—I also don’t know.”

“So we’re just back at square one,” Patton said, trying to put some pep into his voice. “Just means that we—“

What it exactly it meant, Patton didn’t get to say before his foot went down into the puddle, and then he got yanked _down—_

_"—now the tropical forest is a special place, where the balance of nature’s like a delicate lace! you should have some compassion and show some concern, for the forest depends on what we learn—“  
_

_—boxy old tv and the occasional glitchy wave but the rhythm and the beat was true and here he was sitting on the old carpet that only scratched a little and everything was oddly muffled wasn’t it—  
_

__"—_ unfortunately some don’t understand, like people coming in and clearing the land! it’s called deforestation, and that means horrors, bulldozers, axes, clearing the forest—”  
_

“—tton? Patton!”

Patton leaned over and spat out the gross, scummy water, grimacing and making complaining noises as he scrubbed at his mouth with a hand, attempting to shake out his now-soaking hair.

“That was... sudden,” Logan said, some water splattered on his glasses. Belatedly, he took them off to wipe away the droplets with his shirt.

“Always is,” Virgil said with a sigh. “It’s apparently the water, this time, the memory traps change. Easy enough to spot, I guess _—_ Patton, you okay, buddy?”

“It’s gonna be stuck in my head for _hours,”_ Patton said, trying not to whine, and he could practically _feel_  the glance Virgil and Logan exchanged over his head.

“What is?” Virgil prompted.

“Rainforest rap,” Patton said vaguely, waving a hand at the puddle. “TV time.”

“That was the—?” Logan began, almost looking tempted to reach out and touch the puddle, before Virgil caught his wrist.

“We’ve gotta keep moving,” he said, voice on edge. “Do _not_  go looking for those, I swear, if you stay in too long you’ll drown.”

Logan withdrew his hand, and Patton shoved some of his sopping hair out of his face, before he wrung out his khakis. Or tried to, anyways.

“The water is soothing, the water is deep, lay down your heavy head, close your eyes and sleep,” Logan murmured, reciting [something](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/drowning-ophelia/), as Patton was trying to kick the water out of his shoes.

“Urgh, wet socks,” Patton complained, but accepted Virgil’s hand up, and shook his head, like he could dislodge the hazy, filmy feeling. Looking at memories like that made them seem distant and perfect, like everything seemed in movies, like Patton was seeing everything through sunlit white cloth, heavenly and a bit abstract. Smudged out the bad stuff, the uncertain stuff, the sad stuff. Making it all seem cinematic and beautiful and wonderful.

That’s what made it so dangerous.

“And we’re moving,” Virgil said, sparing a dirty glance at the puddle that looked so innocuous now. 

“Which way, do you think?” Patton asked, but before someone could answer, something _yanked,_  practically pulling Patton off his feet. 

“The bracelet,” Logan said, urgent, grabbing his arm, but it didn’t really need to be pointed out; what was once the crown was the most brilliant thing in the forest, glimmering a fierce gold, and Patton blinked.

“So we’re following the bracelet,” Virgil said, and Logan huffed out a sigh.

“Following the advice of a bracelet, in the midst of an imagined amalgamation of the subconscious, loaded with traps based heavily on emotion. I’ve stopped expecting this to make sense, and yet.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Patton said with a shrug. “We follow the bracelet?”

“We follow the bracelet,” Virgil agreed.

“Maybe, um,” Patton said to his own wrist, awkwardly. “Maybe don’t pull so hard, next time?”

The bracelet glinted apologetic orange, before tugging gently; a bit like how it felt for a dog to tug at a leash, except it was a bracelet that had previously been a crown on a puppet.

So they followed where the bracelet led. And then...

Nothing happened.

Well, Logan’d probably say that wasn’t entirely accurate. _Nothing doesn’t ever happen, that’s not actually possible,_  he’d lectured them all at length a few times. But it felt like it to Patton. It was mostly just night falling over them slowly, and the occasional snapping branch or comment, and a few near misses with the occasional sinister puddle, but it was really just a lot of walking.

A lot of walking.

And _nothing. Else._

And Patton grew increasingly more fidgety by the second.

Was Roman safe? What was taking so long? Deceit could have tricked them, and Roman could be hurt. Roman was all alone, and he might be scared, or upset, and Patton almost wanted to... to... _what?_  Take off the bracelet, leave it with Virgil, and go out to find Roman on his own? He’d have no idea how to do it, and besides, they’d never stand for him going off alone. But Patton couldn’t help but worry—like Logan said, they were in uncharted territories here. The only way Patton wasn’t ripping his hair out was the reassuring presence of two other sides at his sides. (He can’t even bring himself to smile at the near-pun.) He can’t imagine doing this alone. And Roman _was._

But Roman had always been so brave; ready to tackle the nearest danger without a thought. But that worried Patton, the parental, protective part—he could get _hurt_. Usually someone was there, to watch his back, or it was imaginary. But Roman was _alone now,_  without anyone at his side.

And they were just _walking_  through the _forest_  and not _trying to help him._

Patton dug his heels into the ground, coming to an abrupt stop, regardless of the tugging of the bracelet.

Logan blinked at him, a curious kind of blink. “Patton?”

Patton took a deep breath, and it turned out shakier than he wanted to. “Roman’s alone.”

Virgil stilled, completely and utterly. Patton could barely see him breathing.

“He’s _alone,”_ Patton continued, voice thick, “and we—we don’t know where he is, or _how_  he is, and we don’t know what he’s doing or what he’s dealing with and why we’re still here when there was supposed to be a _deal,_  and if he’s there and we’re not safe maybe—maybe the wrong one of us _went,_ and—“

“ _Patton,”_  Logan said, sharp. “The fact alone that he tried to sort us based on usefulness or uselessness is deprived of logic, there’s no reasoning—”

“The only reasoning he’s got is for self-advancement, Logan, you know that,” Virgil said, just as sharp, and Patton suddenly and childishly wants to tug his hoodie up over his ears, his face, breathe in the comforting and familiar scent of laundry detergent, hide from the world for a little. Except he _doesn’t have his hoodie._  

“Roman’s _alone,”_ Patton choked out, breaking up whatever they were about to get into, _again_. “He’s alone, and we’ve been walking for _ever,_  and _nothing’s happened._  We’ve just been—been going around and around, and just _waiting._  And all I can think about is how Roman might be hurting, or _scared,_  and we can’t _help him.”_

Patton broke off for a gulp of air, and tried again, and again, before he at last brought his hands up to his face to press the heels of his hands into his eyes. He couldn’t cry now, he couldn’t break down now—they were lost, _Roman_  was lost, and they needed to find a way out. They needed to get _together_  again.

Because when they were all broken apart, they were all skewed out of balance. Patton was so used to this little support group, his constants, the sides that he depended on and debated with and loved, loved, _loved,_  from the deepest depths of his heart to the tippy-top. He _needed_  them. He needed _all_  of them.

“Patton,” Virgil said, voice soft, and a hand clasped hesitantly on his shoulder. “Patton, _hey._  You know Roman, he’s... he figures stuff out, you know? He’s gotten himself out of a lot of sticky situations. He just told you about that one villain and the, uh, the pit of spikes, right?”

He did. Before the night took a hard right and flew off the road, back when Roman had plopped his feet in Patton’s lap and told Patton the whole outlandish story. Roman was always the best storyteller, and that had been a good story; a monocled, mustachioed villain, a beautiful prince in peril, daring chases, and outrageously choreographed sword-fights.

Patton took a breath, and said, in a voice that was a bit more wet than he would have liked, “Lysanderoth.”

“ _Lysanderoth_ ,” Logan tsked under his breath.

“ _Right,”_ Virgil said. Patton wasn’t a betting man, but he’d have bet a solid five bucks that Virgil was shooting Logan a Look, “Lysanderoth. And the Dragon Witch, and a ton more, right? He can handle a... a Kaa wannabe.”

Patton let out a reluctant laugh, and scrubbed at his face, trying to ensure that his face was clear of tears. He felt so raw inside, like there was some hole with jagged edges deep in his chest; Virgil’s words had only proved to sand them down a little bit. 

“Okay,” Patton rasped, and cleared his throat hastily. “Okay. Let’s keep moving.”

“Are you certain?” Logan asked, voice softer, and Patton nodded, taking a breath in, letting it out, and adjusting the bangle around his wrist.

Which tugged.

_Hard._

Hard enough that it nearly pulled Patton off his feet, nearly yanked his arm out of its socket; Patton clung to his own wrist for dear life, stumbling after it.

“Patton, wait up!” Virgil called.

“I can’t!” Patton called back over his shoulder, trying his hardest not to trip over his own feet; something told him if he did, it’d just keep dragging him.

He heard Logan curse, and really after this whole ordeal was over Patton was going to chat with him about it, but he couldn’t exactly say anything because he had to pick up his pace to keep his shoulder from dislocating.

He had to run after wherever the bangle was leading him, sprinting through the marsh, pace slowed because his feet would keep sinking into the mud and the grass with each forward movement. 

And just as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

Patton nearly overbalanced, stumbling forward a few steps to counterbalance it, until a hand on his shoulder yanked him back, making him stumble back into someone’s chest.

“ _Do not move,”_  Virgil said lowly, through gritted teeth, and Patton frowned, about to ask why, before he saw what was before them.

Opal, emerald, sapphire, jet—the wonderful oasis before them glimmered, shining so beautifully, catching what little light was left in the darkness. It almost seemed to have its own refractory light, like there was something in it, shining and bright and _pretty_  and—

“ _Patton,”_  Virgil snapped, grip tightening—Patton hadn’t even realize he’d taken a step forwards.

It looked so _peaceful_  there. Like if he walked into the water and let all the pretty colors wash over him he’d never have to worry about _anything_  anymore. Not about being stuck in the subconscious, not about Roman alone and afraid or hurt, not about the sticky messy issues of emotions—it would all just... wash away. And Patton could just _float._

“It’s so _shiny_ , Virge.”

“Patton. _Patton,_  hey, you can’t—remember, okay? It wants you to _drown._  Pat— _ **Morality, listen to me**.”_

Why had Virgil’s voice gone so raspy and deep? Couldn’t he see the way the light was reflecting off the water. It looked so _happy,_  so _nice._  He could imagine how it would feel; nice and cool against his skin, and it would wash away all the grime and the mud and the fear and the pain, and Patton would be good as new, except even _better._

_“Patton,”_  another voice, “Patton, _no,_  come _back here_ , we have to—“

“It’s okay,” Patton says distantly, and he can feel his legs folding beneath him. Why was there pulling against his arms? Didn’t they see how simple it could be? How relaxed and good and how _easy_  all of it would be? “It’ll be okay, see? I’ll be okay again. I’ll be _better._  Just let me—“

He just wants to _touch it,_  that’s all, he wants to see if it feels as good as it looks, he’ll touch it just once and then he’ll be better again and he can fix everything, but that can only happen if they let him _touch it—_

“That is _not how that works._  Patton. _Hey!”_

Had he been talking out loud? He must have been talking out loud. But he can just touch it, he feels so heavy and he just wants to drop into the water, he could only imagine how good it would be, how nice how pleasant how—

And then arms close around him, hauling him away, and Patton _screams._

He’s on fire he’s on fire he’s on fire he needs to get to the water and put out the fire he’s burning he can feel it—

“— _hurting him, we can’t—”_

“If we let go he’ll _drown—”_

He kicks, he screams louder, he thrashes, he wants to _go_  they need to let him _go—_

Blindly, Patton senses something near his face, and he lunges, closing his jaws tight and sharp, tasting the tang of copper, hearing the yelp of surprised pain, and he thrashes harder, elbow connecting with something and then the fire goes away and Patton gasps, throwing himself free, into the—

* * *

“Patton?”

Patton shook himself with a smile and a laugh, turning away from the window, from where he’d been counting the gentle dust mites in the air, floating, glimmering, almost, in the gentle shafts of golden light from the sunset, letting go of how he’s been twisting his left hand over and over his right wrist.

“Sorry, darling,” he said. “Got stuck daydreaming again, I suppose.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You and that window,” he said. “Sometimes, I swear you’re splitting a life between me and the one in your head.”

Patton laughs too.

He gestured with the spoon he was using to stir the pasta with. “Would you grab some bowls, dear? Dinner’s almost done.”

Patton smiled, rising from his armchair. He put the golden curtains back in place, and walked to the kitchen, rubbing at his wrist one last time. His husband thought it was some kind of tendon weakness; Patton always thought that some kind of brace, or something to hold his wrist, would make the weird need for pressure abate. He got into the habit of holding his wrist when he drifted off like that. No idea why—just one of his foibles, he guessed.

 He dropped a kiss on his husband’s cheek and squeezed his shoulder before he rose onto his tiptoes, taking down two of their bowls, gathering up forks from the silverware drawer and beginning to set the table. 

“I am sorry that we couldn’t do anything else for our anniversary,” Patton said apologetically, and his husband waved a hand.

“Time with you, that’s all I need,” he said. 

“Still,” Patton said. “Five years and we do what we almost always do?”

“You love pasta,” his husband pointed out. “And _I_  am proud of _you_. An animal rescue award’s no small deal, you know? Besides, I’ll be on your arm as your trophy husband. It’s not entirely without celebration.”

Patton smiled. “True,” Patton said. “Which wine, d’you think?”

_“—tton? Patton?!”  
_

“Hm?” Patton asked, turning his head over his shoulder.

His husband glanced over from where he was dishing up the pasta. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Did...” Patton frowned. “I thought I heard you say my name.”

His husband smiled. “Are you sure you’re entirely out of that daydream, honey?”

Patton rolled his eyes fondly. “Guess not,” he said. He rubbed absently at his wrist, and his husband raised his eyebrows. Patton dropped both his hands to his sides—his husband always figured the fidgeting made it worse. 

“Anyway,” his husband said. “The riesling, remember? We got it special during our last grocery trip. Pairs well with the sauce, plus it’s sweet enough for you.”

“Of course,” Patton said, shaking his head. “Silly me. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately.”

Patton uncorked the wine, and poured it out into two glasses, before setting the wine back to chill, in case they wanted more later.

“Happy anniversary, dear,” his husband said, rising his glass for a toast, and Patton smiles as they clink together.

“Happy anniversary.” 

 

“— _can’t just wait around, I’m going in after him—”_

_“—you told me yourself that it was dangerous for you, what am I supposed to do, just wait around—?!”  
_

Patton sat up from bed in a cold sweat, gasping. He couldn’t get in enough air, he couldn’t breathe, he felt like he was—

“Whoa, hey, hey,” his husband’s scratchy voice murmured, and a warm yellow glow diffused throughout the room. Patton shuddered, turning away from it—too bright, too much. A warm, dry arm enclosed around him, tugging him close.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” his husband murmured into his ear. “And you’re so clammy _._  Patton, honey, did you have another nightmare?”

“I can’t,” Patton croaked, and cleared his throat, shaking his head, hand clutching his wrist to his chest. “I can’t—remember, I—”

He paused, frowned, turned his face to look up at his husband. “ _Another_ nightmare?”

His husband frowned too, pushed aside his sweaty bangs that must have fallen into his eyes as he slept.

“When we first got together?” He prompted gently. “You had all these awful nightmares about drowning. It’d take hours for you to calm down.” He paused, and carefully unlatched Patton’s death grip around his own right wrist. “I thought they’d stopped after we’d gotten married.”

Patton’s breathing was slowing. Yes, that was right; he’d had such trouble at the start of their whirlwind romance. But his husband had felt so familiar, so… it was like he was a  _memory,_  like deja vu. Like entering the relationship brought him such a huge jolt of happiness, Patton couldn’t help but love him. The past five years of memories, of marriage, felt like a warm haze, one he could wrap himself up in like a blanket.

“Could we,” Patton said, and curled in closer. “Could we keep the light on?”

He can feel his husband press a smile against his hair. “Of course we can, dearest.”

Patton focused on the warm yellow light, the gold, and let his breathing slow. Yes. The gold light was comforting, and calming, and it smoothed over all of his fears. No water here, he convinced himself. No water. He wasn’t drowning. He was fine where he was. He just had to stay here. And he could try to be happy.

His eyes were sliding shut. He just had to stay…. here….

 

“So,” his husband began, grinning as he moved to unlock the door, “straight to the center of the mantle with that, do you think?”

Patton let out a modest laugh, tilting the plaque so it caught the light. “Mm. Maybe. Maybe that empty spot on the bookshelf would be better—”

“Hey, no,” he said, fiddling with the keys. “That deserves a place of pride!”

He leaned to kiss the side of Patton’s head, before opening the door. “After you.”

Patton bobbed an imaginary curtsey before he walked through the door, and he froze in the doorway to the living room. 

A rush of laughter bubbled up from the crowd—there were so many people, all of them people Patton and his husband loved, a sea of faces Patton couldn’t quite make out, but he could feel the happiness and love rising in his chest.

“Surprise,” Patton’s husband said, with a squeeze to his shoulder. “Happy anniversary.”

“You,” Patton began, but couldn’t manage to finish his sentence because he was smiling so wide. He could only reach out to pat an affectionate hand on his chest and press a kiss to his lips.

After the plaque is placed (indeed on the mantle, to the applause and whoops of Patton’s friends) and the initial chitchat takes place, someone put on [piano music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lBVJty24wgQ) that made Patton smile. 

The people were a blur; he chatted to so many, about so many things, that he can hardly keep track of the memories even as he’s making them, but he felt the same happy  _haze_  he always felt whenever he thought about the life he and his husband had here together, the one that, by all accounts, fell into their laps.

The food is homey and well-cooked, filling, comfort food by every possible measure; the desserts and drinks are aplenty, and there’s hardly a moment without some kind of laughter bubbling up over the polite piano music.

He’s so  _happy._

Patton’s husband’s reaching out to smudge away some kind of food stain on Patton’s cheek when the door slammed.

Patton frowned, turning to see what’s going on, but his husband grabbed his left arm. 

“Leave it,” he said. “Just the wind.”

“We should go and—“ Patton began, making to turn again, but his husband gripped his arm tighter, dragging him in closer.

“They’re handling it,” he said, voice low and soothing and calming, and Patton felt his breathing slow. He shook his head—he must have drunk the wine too quickly, he felt like he was getting fuzzy.

“Who?”

“Leave it,” his husband repeated, hand tight on his arm. “Let’s go back in. The people who love you are all here.”

“The door,” Patton repeated, faint. “I—there’s someone at the—”

Another slam, and Patton’s head turned, and Patton’s husband jerked him even closer. Patton instinctively stumbled forwards a few steps, too shocked to even flinch.

“You’re hurting me,” Patton said dumbly. His husband had never hurt him—never bruised him, not even the fun kind. 

This was going to leave a bruise.

“— _gil, that’s it, time’s up, I’m going in—”_

Patton shook his head, hard, and fought the instinct to clap his hands over his ears. 

Who’d talked? Someone had talked. Someone important—someone he can’t—

It feels like all the shelves in his brain are jittering, shaking apart, unending every piece of thought in his head like his brain is in some kind of earthquake—

“Patton,” his husband said, voice soft and gentle, cutting through the noise. Patton took a deep breath in, tried to focus, on the hand that’s gone softer around his arm. “Patton, darling, you must have had too much wine. Come back to the kitchen, I’ll get you some water.”

Patton blinked, slow. “Water,” he repeated, in a whisper.

“Yes, water,” his husband said. “You must be drifting again, sweetheart.”

_Drifting._  That felt like a very gentle word for it. Before, yes, during his daydreams, that was drifting—that was feeling like he was due to float away. But now— _now—_

“Come on back and sit down, you’ll feel better then.”

Patton stumbled blindly over his own two feet, gripping his right wrist to his chest, trying to put enough pressure there. Why had the room gone so dark? It was like every golden light had gone out, dousing everyone in harsh light and shadows. There’s something— _something—_

“Why is everyone moving?” Patton tried to ask, because they were—it was like they were all lining up to look out of the windows, out to the yard, to the—

The slam was even louder then, probably because the door knocked over, and Patton tried to look over, to see what it was, but his husband put a hand over his eyes.

“You’re just feeling woozy, dear,” his husband murmured. “Keep your eyes shut, it’ll pass soon.”

Patton tried to shake it, to shake him off, but something else happened—his hand was ripped off, and two hands cupped his cheeks instead.

“Jesus Christ,” a voice, the voice, the one that was making everything shake, “Jesus  _Christ,_  Pat, we have to get out of here, okay? Say goodbye to Stepford, we’re leaving—”

The man, the one with the voice, stood, offering Patton his hands, but Patton blinked at him, slow and sharp, trying to catch his breath.

“Who,” he said, and his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater, even to him, “who are you?”

The man froze where he was. He dropped back to his knees, and took Patton’s hands in his own.

“ _Patton,”_  he said, and his voice broke.

“I’m—yes,” Patton said, uncertain, voice still distant. “I’m Patton. Who are you? Why are you here?”

“ _Patton,”_  he repeated, in that same awful voice. “I’m—you  _know_  me, okay? We need to go. We left Logan all alone, and we have to go find Roman—“

Patton shook his head hard again, trying to dislodge whatever was shaking up his brain, making him so slow and uncertain and—

“I don’t know who those people are,” Patton said uncertainly, taking his hands back, gripping his right wrist to his chest protectively. “I’m sorry, you seem very upset, but I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t know  _why_ —”

“I’m  _Virgil,”_  the man begged. “Patton,  _please,_  I’m Virgil, I’m  _Virgil,_  I’m your best  _friend_ —”

“I’ve never met you before,” Patton said. He knew he hadn’t. He couldn’t remember this man at all. 

So why did it feel like he was lying?

“Yes you have,” the man said— _pleaded—_ like he was on the verge of tears. “ _Yes you have,_  Patton, please, we have to go—“

Patton frowned. “Why would I go?” 

Is there water? It sounds like there’s water. Patton wanted to look and see but he couldn’t look away from the stranger—Virgil, apparently.

“I’m happy here,” Patton said, blankly. “The people I love are here.”

“The people you—“ Virgil began, before shaking his head, giving a wet laugh. He seemed upset. Why was he upset?

“The people you love? Patton. They aren’t real.”

Patton frowned even more. “Of course they’re real,” he said faintly. “Why would you say that they’re not? I know them, of course they’re—”

_“Patton,”_  he said, voice deep and firm. “ _Look at them. Really_  look at them.”

“I am looking,” Patton said, with a glance towards the crowd of his friends, watching in silence.

“Okay,” Virgil said, and pointed. “What color are her eyes, then?”

He blinked, looking to the woman he was pointing to. She was a friend, wasn’t she? He  _knew_  her. He knew her he knew her he knew her—

Didn’t he?

“Patton,” Virgil repeated. “Look. At her  _face.”_

He couldn’t see it.

“What’s her name?”

He couldn’t see her face.

“How do you know her?”

Come to think of it, he couldn’t—he couldn’t see any of their faces. He couldn’t see the faces in the crowd, they were just skin-colored blurs, they didn’t have—

“How did you two meet?” Virgil pressed.

Patton shook himself, hard, curling back up in the armchair, away from him.

“I know them,” he said, hoarsely. “I  _know_  I know them.”

“Patton, they aren’t real,” Virgil said, gentle, choked up, but he didn’t reach for Patton’s hands again. “You can’t make up faces, right? Your brain just can’t do it. So you skimmed over all the details in the dream. So it makes sense to you. So you don’t realize you’re in a dream. That’s all this is. A dream.”

Patton was shaking his head, weakly, but even as he was, he could see—the light was growing harsher, and as the light grew, each faceless person seemed to be claimed by it, like they were being beamed up, he thought hysterically.

“A happy one,” Virgil continued, voice soft and earnest. “But you need to wake up now. We need you.” He sucked in a breath, and at last, the tears fell from his eyes, sending a streaks of his dark makeup down his cheek, like warpaint. 

“ _I_  need you.”

Patton’s eyes followed the tear where it fell, down his cheek, down his face, landing on… a scarf.

A red scarf. It looked soft. Patton, at last, reached out a hand to touch it, to touch  _him,_ brow creasing.

“Virgil,” Patton repeated, slow.

“Patton,” a voice said at last, and Patton turned his head to stare.

Virgil let out a bark that might have been a laugh. “Our brain really knows how to sucker you in, huh?”

“Patton,” his husband repeated, soft. “Please stay. You’re so happy here.”

“He’s happy with  _us,”_ Virgil snarled, and his husband smiled.

Flat. Uncaring. Not him. Not him at all. Patton’s fingers tightened in the scarf. He didn’t know why it was calming him down.

“Then why can’t he remember you?”

“That’s not fair,” Virgil said, moving just slightly, placing himself between Patton and his husband. “You know as well I do that it’s the swamp that does that. It wants him to  _drown._  He can’t remember what’s going on up there because it would make him want to leave. Like Narcissus but on steroids.  Instead of the reflection of himself it’s giving him reflection of the  _past.”_  He turned to face Patton more fully again.

“You already said,” Virgil said. “That—that you can’t stay here. This place—it’s like your room, Patton. You can’t stay here.”

“My room,” Patton repeated faintly.

“We said we’d move forward,” Virgil said. “Not—we’re close to moving on. We’re close because you were brave enough to focus on moving forward. You’ve done it before and you can do it again.  _Please._ Please just take that step. Come with me and we can take it together.”

“My room,” Patton repeated, eyes fixing on the golden curtains, the light that was once gold. Like his room. Yes. His room. He remembered his room—he remembered his room but he couldn’t remember—why was he so focused on gold—?

He was so lightheaded. Why couldn’t he figure it out?

“Yes,” Virgil said, wrapping his hand around Patton’s, so Patton’s hand tangled more in the scarf. “ _Yes._  This place is like your room. It—it makes you happy, right? It brings you that jolt of happiness. But the return to the present can be… too much, sometimes. So you stayed here. In the dream. In your room. But I can help you get back. Like we all helped last time. Me, and Roman, and Logan, and Thomas.”

“Thomas,” Patton repeated.  _Thomas._  Thomas was important. Thomas was—

But Patton couldn’t follow that line of thought. He frowned, reaching forward to touch Virgil’s lips.

“They’re blue,” he said. “Are you cold?”

Virgil cursed.

“We’ve been here too long,” Virgil said. “We—we aren’t breathing. We need to  _go,_  Patton. Please.  _Now._  Or we  _both_  drown. _”_

Patton began to stand, but he couldn’t walk forward anymore, and Virgil’s face twisted into something mean—something  _nasty._

_“You_  go,” his husband snarled, grip tight on Patton’s arm again. “Patton’s staying here. With  _me.”_

“Patton,” Virgil said calmly, chin tilting up. “Do you know his name either?”

Patton stared. At that face. He knew that face.

His husband. Five years.

Except… except that wasn’t true, was it?

“It gave you the face,” Virgil said. “It blurred out all the pain. The sadness. He’s as much a dream as the rest of them. It’s a dream we have to give up, for now. Like Roman said.”

Patton let out a shaky breath. Virgil was right.

“Let go of me,” he told his hus—the dream.  _The dream._  He wished his voice came out stronger than it did, but it was so faint, so far away.

“Stay here,” the dream said. “Stay  _here_. You could be so much happier down here with me than up there with them. What do they do for you, anyway? They tease you, they treat you like you’re dumb, they don’t understand your  _feelings._  They couldn’t understand you like I can. They couldn’t make you  _happy_  like I can.”

“ _Falsehood.”_

All three of their heads whipped to where the door had been, where Logan was striding into the living room, confident and cool and composed, something glinting gold in his hand, eyes red, mouth set in a thin, firm line.

Logan. Yes.  _Logan._  How could he have forgotten Logan? How could he have forgotten  _Virgil?_

“Patton,” Logan said. “Virgil. I assume he’s free of the siren song?”

“Almost,” Virgil said, with a nod towards where the dream’s hand was still wrapped tight around his arm.

“Of course,” Logan said smoothly, and, just as smoothly, slammed his fist into the dream’s nose.

The dream may have been a dream, but he reacted like any person would—his head snapped back with a loud groan, hands flying to his bloody-or-broken nose, and Patton stumbled those few steps forward and free. 

“Right,” Logan said, clearing his throat, “Apologies for the delay. Now we just—“

They stepped out into the yard—or where Patton’s once-manicured lawn had been, once. Now it was just the dark swath of the night, stretching endless in all directions.

“…get… out,” Logan finished faintly, and opened his hands, frowning. “Hm.”

Patton peeked into his hands. He recognized that pattern clear as day—the gold detailing around Roman’s shoulders, laid out on Logan’s hands, as if neatly torn off.

Glowing just slightly in the dark. 

“They were leading me to you,” Logan said. “I assume my luck’s rather run out.”

“Leading—where did you even  _get_  that?” Virgil said. “You were supposed to watch from the surface!”

“Yes, and then I followed,” Logan said, and sniffed a bit, rubbing at his red eyes. “Well, I got a touch sidetracked. Apologies.” 

Before Patton could ask, there was a glow too.

The crown. The bangle, shackle, whatever—it was back.

“Oh,” Patton said, and  _that’s_ why he’d been rubbing at his wrist all the time! “ _Ohh!”_

Because now it was glowing gold too—and when Patton raised his hand, to clasp at Logan’s wrist with his right hand, both gleamed bright in the endless stretch of the night.

Virgil seemed to get the picture—he removed the scarf from his neck, and grumbled, “Roman, wherever you are, this better work,” before wrapping the scarf loosely around his wrist, and grasping at Patton too, and the crown yanked, hard and sharp, and they went up and up and out of the—

* * *

The water burned as it came up his throat and out of his nose. 

Patton choked on it, coughing, as Virgil hacked similarly away in the background, and Logan pounded hard on Patton’s back, then Virgil’s.

“Why the hell did you go in after me?” Virgil wheezed at Logan, wrapping the now-sopping scarf back around his neck.

Logan attempted to brush the water droplets off his glasses. “It was  _five minutes,_  I thought you’d—been sucked into a dream of your own, or something.” He stuck his glasses back on his nose.

“If you thought that,  _why the hell did you jump in too?!?!”_  Virgil demanded, voice rising as Patton scrubbed at his mouth with his wrist.

Logan coughed, too, attempting to wring out the hem of his shirt.

“It doesn’t matter, it worked,” he deflected. “After—a bit of time. I managed to realize it much quicker than, I expect, either of you, so—”

Virgil frowned. “You got your own dream?”

Logan’s cheeks went bright red, and he coughed, much more purposefully, fiddling with his glasses again.

“You  _knew,”_ Virgil said, voice rising, “you  _knew_  about the danger, we  _told you_  about all the danger, you could have DIED if you—“

Patton burst into tears.

The suddenness of it surprised him, or maybe it wasn’t even really sudden at all—his near breakdown before the bracelet yanked him to that picturesque nightmare sea felt years away, but he knew it had barely been ten minutes.

He could see, blurrily, Logan and Virgil exchange a panicked look before Patton buried his face into his hands.

“Oh, hey, no,” Virgil said awkwardly. “Um—Patton, hey, look, we’re all fine, right? We’re all okay, we all got out.”

Virgil’s hand awkwardly tapped him on the shoulder—or, at least, he thought it might be Virgil’s hand.

“I could have  _killed you,”_  Patton sobbed.

“ _No,”_  Logan said, sharply. “No. This wasn’t your fault. You are not to blame.”

“You both went in after me,” Patton choked out, gesturing distantly towards the water, staring at Logan, and then he blinked.

Logan, belatedly, moved his arm so it was out of Patton’s line of sight, but Patton still saw it—the bitemark, still bleeding sluggishly. 

Patton had  _bitten him._  Like an  _animal._  

“I  _hurt you,”_  Patton choked out.

“You weren’t in your right mind,” Logan said, as gently as he knew how to be. “The pond—it has a hypnotic effect. You weren’t entirely in control of your actions. It’ll heal.”

He squeezed at Patton’s shoulder, and added seriously, “You will too.”

Patton buried his face in his hands again. He couldn’t look at him without feeling guilty.

The tears were hot running down his cheeks, and he refused to move his face from his hands, even as Virgil tried to wrap his arm around Patton’s shoulder—Patton shook him off, unable to bear it. Virgil could have  _drowned for him_. When Patton couldn’t even  _remember him._

They didn’t really try talking to him, verbally comforting him—there was the occasional shushing noise, the occasional whispered  _it’ll be okay_ platitude, but all that was on the air was the noise of Patton stifling his sobbing and the distant swish of leaves in the breeze, the creaks of wood, the distant rustle of some kind of horrible wildlife.

Even as upset as Patton was, he couldn’t cry forever—his silent shaking sobs broke off into awkward hitching breaths, when the tears wouldn’t come anymore.

There was a hand on his back, and Logan’s breath, soft, barely audible under the noise of the breeze and the forest.

“ _Don’t move.”_

Patton froze where he was sitting, and he could hear Virgil curse under his breath. Patton, slowly, barely moved his hand so he could squint out into the darkness.

_Spiders._

_When one shows up_ , Roman had said,  _It seems to exist to just make sure that you don’t stay in one place for too long._

And how long had they been at the pond? Long enough for Patton to fall, for the others to follow, for Patton to cry.

Patton could feel himself start to shake in terror. 

Now he had seen one he could see how they were circling them—a horde had crept up on them in near silence, and even now, there was only the occasional click of pincers, the rustle of one taking a many-legged step.

They didn’t have any weapons. They didn’t have  _Roman._

They were surrounded and they were outnumbered.

“I’m sorry,” Patton rasped, under his breath. “I love you both.”

Virgil’s hand squeezed, hard, on his arm. Logan took in a breath.

Before Logan could even try to whisper a plan, there was the loud whinny of a horse, and someone bellowing “CHARGE!”

Their heads all snapped towards the noise—the spiders seemed to look toward it too.

And a veritable  _army_  burst forth from the trees.

Logan and Virgil, simultaneously, hunched around Patton—forming the smallest possible obstacle for those surging forth, yelling at the tops of their lungs, weapons hefted high over their heads, the man still calling for a  _charge_ , monocle somehow miraculously staying in place as he cantered about, but it didn’t seem necessary—their defenders wove a tight defensive circle around them, driving the spiders back and away.

Patton had never seen anything like it outside of a movie.

It was like a movie—bows and arrows, swords and knives, spears and shields, the people surrounding them mostly wearing armor or gowns or knightly garb, most of them with a crest so familiar it was like seeing the lines of Patton’s face in a mirror.

Patton let a hysterical laugh bubble past his lips.

At last, the last of the spiders was charged away, and the knights and ladies all fell into line, facing the three of them.

Patton knew most of those faces. Some from stories they’d read as children, some from real life, some dear friends—and the man on the horse canted back forth, scow barely visible under his mustache, monocle digging into his cheek.

“Tell the prince that my debt is paid,” he snarled to them. “If  _he_  thinks anyone but  _me_  is going to get that pesky prince, he’s got another thing coming.”

It took a second, but then it clicked—before this whole horrible fiasco, Roman had been telling him. About the villain he’d freed from dangling over a spike pit.  _Lysanderoth._ And Patton had said—that saving his life would weigh on him, a little.

“We will, Lysanderoth,” Patton said, and the villain scowled, before he called a “hyah!” and rode his horse deeper into the woods.

“Sir Patton, sir Logan, sir Virgil,” a knight said, trotting forth, “We have horses for your quest forward—the prince’s castle is taking form not ten minutes’ ride from here.”

“Roman?” Virgil said, head snapping upright.

“How will we know where to go?” Logan demanded, even as the three horses came forward.

The knight laughed. “How you’ve known all along,” he said, and nodded to the strands of gold in Logan’s hand.

Except they weren’t just strands of gold anymore—they glimmered, and with a flash of light, it solidified—it was if the strands had multiplied, tied together, enough to form the length of a tie.

Logan almost smiled as he hastily draped it over his neck.

With a bit of awkward hopping, all three of them at last hopped into their saddles. They never really showed that part in the movies, Patton thought ruefully, how clumsy people could be.

“Thank you,” Patton told the knight, who bowed—well, as much as anyone could bow when they were on a horse.

“We would hardly allow Prince Roman’s allies to come to harm,” the knight said, almost a little scandalized. “Be careful. These woods can be treacherous.”

“Warning a bit too late there, dude,” Virgil muttered.

“We will,” Logan said, smoothing over the glare the knight shot Virgil, before looking between Patton and Virgil.

“Ready?”

_No,_ Patton almost wanted to say. The past five minutes had been so much turmoil, the whole night a measure of insanity. Patton just wanted to rest.

But Roman was waiting. Not ten minutes ride from here.

“Ready,” Patton and Virgil chorused. Because what else could they be?

“Right,” Logan said, gripping tightly at his reigns. “ _Hyah_!”

“ _Hyah!”_  Virgil and Patton echoed.

They all charged forward, horses galloping at breakneck speed through the swamp. Over the tops of the trees, Patton was starting to see towers and turrets. He smiled.

_We’re coming, Roman,_  he thought.  _We all just need to hold on. We’re coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also i did write, you know, [over 60k words,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15769806/chapters/36683277) so that took up my focus for quite a bit. the rest of this will not take as long, i _**promise.**_  
>  _edit:_ someone posted [this on tumblr](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com/post/177954613426/logan-walking-out-of-his-room-with-no-neck-tie) and that's it, y'all, wrap it up, i'm duckin out


	4. roman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! epilogue is (hopefully) shortcoming. the end is near.

Roman wasn’t sure what he expected when he crushed a magic (cursed) medallion under his boot, but it certainly wasn’t this.

An arena, perhaps, that would make sense. A stage, for the sense of melodrama that he and Deceit shared. Some other place representing grandeur, battling, dueling, somewhere blood was so entrenched that anyone walking in would know the truth of  _battle_  sinking deep into their very bones.

A showdown. A fight. That was what Roman had been mentally preparing himself for since he’d snuck the necklace from Virgil’s neck.

This... this was simply a beach.

Roman bent, and touched the sun-warmed sand with his fingers, rubbing his fingers together and watching the gritty grains fall back to the Earth.

It could have been a beach anywhere, but it made him think of tourist traps. Somewhere no one actually lived. Somewhere gift shops outnumbered permanent residents and the roads all had cutesy sea-inspired names. Meant simply to be passed through. Places like that weren’t meant for permanent habitation.

...all right, yes, Roman was perhaps a  _touch_  biased. He  _needed_  populations, he needed a place where there were things to  _do_  and  _explore_  that weren’t cookie-cutter tourist attractions. He needed places where arts and culture could thrive and where his dreams could come true:  _that was his whole entire thing._

But this was where the necklace had dropped him, so this was where he needed to stay. 

He wished he had a horse. Or a boat. A bike, even. He wasn’t picky. (somewhere, roman thinks, virgil is heckling him.)

Instead, he began to walk.

And walk. And  _walk._

If it hadn’t been a dream, Roman thought that he would have long since collapsed. Maybe. Time didn’t have meaning, here. The sun was always beating down on his shoulders, but never budged from where it hung as an obnoxiously bright ball, perhaps early morning or late evening, Roman couldn’t tell since the sun isn’t moving and he didn’t know what time it is. The sand never grew warmer or colder, no matter where Roman walked. And the scenery was uniform in its plainness: same uniform ocean waves, same uniform sand, same straight, long beach, with no semblance of curves or turns in sight. The sand stretched as far as his eye could see to his right; to his left, there was the ocean stretching just as far.

Roman spared a few moments considering what would happen if he turned off this path; the ocean released a rush of air bubbles when he did, and he remembered the shape of the risk water sometimes took in the dreamscape, so he figured it was best to probably not.

It seemed to be a nice enough day, oddly. The perfect kind of temperature to go on a hike. For a day on the beach. And Roman never began to sweat, even when he thought he’d been walking for hours; he never grew thirsty and his feet never grew tired. 

It was as if he was suspended. A flip book, perhaps; someone taking an animation of him walking and flipping it through over and over, but nothing particularly plotted, nothing particularly fascinated. Just a stick figure walking.

He didn’t like this.

From the frenetic chase of before: spiders and puppets and vines, to walking alone, no sight of differences or anything in sight.

Roman, at last, came to a stop. He sat down, and was loathe to think of the way the sand would sneak into his boots and his trousers. But there was more to fret about than discomfort.

Virgil had said Deceit had told him that the most useful of the three of them could use it to get out. And that one would have to stop him.

That the other three would be safe, even if Roman failed.

A lump seized in Roman’s throat.  _Were_  they safe? Was that a lie? Was all of it a lie? Had it been a lie that Roman would have to stop him? Would Roman be doomed to dwell in the dreamscape forever, walking hopelessly along a beach that didn’t have an end? What would that do to him? What would that do to the  _others?_  

Roman flopped onto his back, laying on the sand, closing his eyes against the constant glare of the sun. It wasn’t like there were any pedestrians that were going to mow him over. There was only this stupid beach, going on forever, and—

Roman sat up.

Roman wished Logan was here to whack him over his head and call him an idiot. (he is never telling logan that.)

Because there  _wasn’t_  just the path. There was the  _water._ The waving, unsettling water.

It might be a warning sign not to go in, but Roman was, amongst other things, a knight. He was  _supposed_  to charge into situations, sword drawn, screaming at the top of his lungs.

God, he wished he had his sword. 

He sat up, and turned to look at the ocean. It seemed like it was... moving. More than just wind-and-moon propelled waves. Something under the surface, about to break free, maybe. Like whatever was in there and he were evaluating each other.

“It’s just  _water,”_  Roman said aloud, to himself. But then again, the vines in the dreamscape were  _just_  vines, and the spiders were  _just_  spiders, and—

And the ocean was the only thing he hadn’t quite explored, so he needed to go forth, and  _explore it._

Roman is a knight. He is a dashing, charismatic hero, who battles witches and dragons and sometimes combinations thereof. He complies to the code of chivalry the best he can and a part of that is to  _keep faith_  and to  _eschew unfairness, meanness, and deceit,_  and most of all, to  _serve the liege lord,_  and in his case that is protecting the other sides and the person they all unite to become, and he can surely battle some  _waves._

So why, when he scrambled to his feet and he began to walk towards it, did his stomach twist so sickeningly?

“It’s just water,” Roman said to himself, sounding less convincing with each step. “It’s just water. It’s just water.”

 _You don’t know that,_  a nasty little voice in his head said.  _You don’t know anything about it._

“Just water,” Roman repeated, too loud, ignoring the slightest tremor in his words, the way his boots seemed to sink deeper in the sand with each step and refuse to prise themselves free, the way it felt like there was a band around his ribs wrapping tighter and tighter. 

“Just water.”  _Left foot._

The sand was beginning to grow darker from where the water had soaked it, waiting for another wave to refresh it, end its temporary drought. It would feel like mud, Roman thought. Maybe. It’s dreamscape sand, who knows? Who knows if he’s even in the dreamscape anymore? Maybe he’s somewhere entirely new. Maybe he’s not even here at all.

He was so close to the water. If there was something there—if there was something—

“It’s just water.”  _Right foot._

Wasn’t sea air supposed to make it easier to breathe? Something about the salt? It feels like it’s choking him. He keeps having to swallow around it, trying to take in as many breaths as he can. It’s a thing, right? People can breathe and breathe and breathe but not get in enough oxygen or something and their bodies start shutting down. Logan was fascinated with it in the way he was fascinated by anything out of the ordinary.

 _Asphyxiation._  Roman sucked in hard, let out his breath in a whoosh. That was what it was called, right? Did Logan say that one of the symptoms was feeling like his ribs were under immense amounts of pressure? Was the water doing this to him—a drowned man, inches from the shore, who hadn’t breathed a drop?

“It’s just—” Roman tried, and his voice came out hoarse and shaking, and he tried again. “It’s just—“

 _Water,_ he wanted to scream,  _water,_  but he couldn’t, he couldn’t say anything at all, he couldn’t—

Roman couldn’t walk forward anymore, falling too hard on his butt, breathing harsh and sharp and swallowing the excess of spit that was welling up in his mouth over and over again.

He can’t breathe. He can’t sit up and  _breathe_  he needs to lay down he needs to lay down right now. So he does—he lays flat on his back and stares up at the too-blue sky, and tries to catch his breath.

 _Nothing’s_ _happening_ , he wanted to scream at his body.  _Nothing’s happening!_

There’s no reason for him to not be able to breathe, to be so doubled over by a pain in his chest so deep and intense it could not bear for any further thought than  _I need to keep breathing,_  to survive, there is no  _reason—_

He wanted to propel himself forward, see what was wrong with the water, but he couldn’t, he  _couldn’t,_  sitting up alone seemed a Herculean task, his brain only able to focus on  _in-out-in-out-in-out,_  trying to force himself to keep breathing even when the band around his chest grew so tight and he didn’t get any oxygen and what if he’s asphyxiating what if there’s something in the water that does this what if there’s something in the—

Roman realized almost too late what the repeated welling of saliva in his mouth meant.

He managed to roll himself up onto his hands and knees and throw up into the sand—it burned, his throat, his mouth, his  _nose._  It didn’t help feeling like he wasn’t able to breathe—he choked, and gasped, and hunched over again, spitting rapidly, plugging one nostril then another and trying to blow as much residue out of his nose as possible. Ugh, that was just  _gross._

He wanted  _water._  Normal, safe, unsalty water, cold and clear, to soothe the burning in his throat and his nose. He wiped at his mouth and his chin and under his nose with his hand, shaking it off with a grimace.

“Sorry,” he managed to croak to the sand, and flopped back on his back again, away from the neat little puddle of vomit, because that felt like a much easier way to breathe. It still felt like he was trying to breathe when he was being crushed by the weight of the world, but it was better than feeling like he had to breathe when he was being crushed by the weight of the universe.

This all started when he was moving towards the water.  _In, out._  Was this the water’s way of defending itself?  _In, out._  In which case, that  _absolutely sucked_ for him.  _In, out._  The water clearly didn’t  _want_  him and at this rate he  _certainly_  didn’t want it.  _In, out._  

 _This_   _sucks,_ he wanted to yell at the world.  _This sucks!_  Certainly a brave and dashing prince he was, but when he dealt with blows, he could handle the swift slicing cuts and the occasional fevers of poison and the deep enchanted sleeps of potions.  _In, out._  

What even  _was_  this? What was the  _point_  of this? Roman barely managed to push himself onto his elbows, squinting out at the sea, and then his jaw dropped.

That wasn’t there before.

That massive lighthouse near the horizon  _hadn’t been there before._

Roman almost wanted to laugh, if he was certain that laughing wouldn’t hurt him and send him careening to the ground again trying to catch his breath, but—

Oh. 

Oh, was this a test?

He had to get there even though he felt like he was dying, was that the test? There’d probably be something worse. Something scarier. Something or some _one_  in that lighthouse to—

To—

Roman shook himself, and mentally counted. He’s gonna stand up on the count of three. He was gonna stand up, and start walking, and not sit back down again, no matter how many times he had to double over. 

_One—two—_

Roman rocketed himself to his feet, and immediately had to bend over, hands planted on his knees, heart pounding in his ears, vision swimming.

 _I am not going to faint,_  Roman thought, gritting his teeth.  _I am not going to faint. I am a brave and daring prince, not a fainting damoiseau in distress._

He waited until most of the black had cleared out of his vision, just leaving clinging bits at the edges, and managed to stand, hunched over, a protective arm wrapped around the tightness of his ribs.

He hobbled his way forward, and found himself crouching and breathing deep, trying to blink the blackness out of his eyes. He had three priorities: not fainting, making it to that lighthouse, and still breathing.

He took a few careful steps back from the water, and found his breathing ease, but the lighthouse almost seemed to jolt further away. He managed to find a happy medium: where he could manage to walk without feeling faint, at a very slow pace, but with the lighthouse still within his sights, not disappearing over the horizon to fall off the edge of the earth to leave him trapped.

He could only focus on the lighthouse, on each step, on each inhale and exhale. If he let his mind stray, he would be laid out on his back all over again, wheezing into the air and trying to breathe. He didn’t want that. So he had to think about something else.

He had to think about something else.

Roman swallowed, licked at his dry lips, and took a breath in.

“ _I have often dreamed,”_  he managed, and winced at how offkey he was, how rough his voice sounded, “ _of a far-off place, where a hero’s welcome would be waiting for me...”_

He lost track of how many times he sang the song over and over, looping back as soon as he sang the last great note, offhandedly humming and vocalizing any instrumental breaks. This helped him focus on breathing and nothing else, too; he had to think about where he had to breathe at the end of each phrase, which verse was coming up next, which way he could make his voice sound most like drums.

At last— _at last—_ he trailed off on the edge of the song, standing at last in front of the lighthouse.

Which was on a dock. Suspended above the water.

Roman took a careful, deep breath, and wrapped an arm around his ribs loosely.

“It’s just water,” he repeated to himself. “It’s water. It’s breathing. You can handle that. You can handle it.”

His feet sunk into the sand with each step, and with each step, Roman felt his shoulders rising up to his ears, fully expecting a strongly physical reaction like last time. Of course he would. Of course he’d be afraid of  _that._  Was it even so bad? Had he been exaggerating?

So he’d felt like he couldn’t breathe. He’d thrown up. People throw up every day. What was  _wrong_  with him? There had to have been something wrong with him, or maybe that there wasn’t something wrong with him at all. He overreacts. That’s his  _thing._  He’s too dramatic, he’s too  _much,_  of course he’d throw up too much of a fuss when something  _little_  like that happened, of course he’d—

He forced himself to start walking again. When had he stopped? He needed to get into the lighthouse. It had to be the way onward. It had to be, right?

What if it wasn’t, though? 

What if it was a trap? What if because he’d failed to investigate the water, this was his trap? Lure him in with the possibility to escape, to move on, to break free, and really he’d just be stuck in a lighthouse forever? Stuck wandering up and down the stairs and staring out into the ocean and waiting and waiting and  _waiting_  for some kind of boat that would never come? To break free? To get back to the others, but what if they didn’t want him back at all?

Why  _would_  they want him back at all? If they knew how badly he’d overreacted to the water? Hell, him at  _all._  He’s too  _much._  Logan would probably be thrilled that they could focus on something more serious again, and Virgil would be glad that nobody would snipe at him anymore, and sure Patton might get a little sad for a little while but he’d find someone new to love and care for, because that was the way Patton was built. What did he even contribute? Why did he even think they  _liked_  him? Because they didn’t. They  _shouldn’t._

They didn’t know about all the  _other_  stuff. The stuff he tried to keep hidden down that they probably just politely ignored it because they didn’t want to deal with it.  _He_  doesn’t even want to deal with it. Himself. He doesn’t want to deal with himself most of the—

The thought cut off when his hand landed on the lighthouse door. He blinked.

Had it been that short of a walk? He, fumblingly, grasped at the knob, and ended up having to put his full body’s weight behind it to shove it forward, creaking ominously.

It smelled of a gross combination of dust and rust and salt. Like no one had been in here for years. Roman coughed, waving his hand in front of his face, eyes stinging from all the dust.

That’s what he’s telling himself, anyway.

“All right,” Roman said, to the dim entrance of the lighthouse, the rickety spiral stairs, the dust mites flying through the air with his every move. “I’m in here. What now?”

What now, indeed. He began to wander, leaving footprints whenever he lifted a boot. It was the great, circular base of the lighthouse; there was a little wooden rowboat tucked away haphazardly, with equally rotted oars tossed in like afterthoughts. Nets draped haphazardly over any available surface. Crates, and a crowbar to prise them open with. Roman reached for that—better a blunt maybe-weapon than none at all, he thought, and hefted it, testing the weight, before twirling it experimentally, the way he might with his sword.

Passable.

But there was nothing else here of use to him; he needed to keep climbing, he guessed. He figured what he needed would probably be at the top.

The next three doors he tried wouldn’t open, no matter how hard he slammed his body against them or how often he tried to prise them open with his crowbar, which seemed to underline that... Logan would call it a  _hypothesis._

Logan would have been a good choice for this. He would have figured out the water immediately. He’d probably know all kinds of historical facts about lighthouses too. He probably wouldn’t have even thrown up.

But Logan’s actually a useful side, so clearly he wouldn’t have been chosen for it.

Oh, sure. He and Logan postured about their importance all the time. But Roman knew: when it came to survival, when it came to decision-making, when it came to  _anything,_ logic trumped creativity, every time. What use was creativity when trying to figure out a paycheck? How to survive and thrive? How to navigate personal and professional relationships?

Roman had a pretty voice and he provided income. For  _now._  Anything could happen to creativity, fragile little creativity, and Logan would be the one stepping forward to save the day, to keep them going.

They both knew it. They  _all_  knew it.

Roman shook himself, and began to climb the stairs again.

No room he tried would open. But the trap door leading to the top of the lighthouse, the light itself, swung open with barely a creak. Roman hoisted himself up, gripping tight to the crowbar.

The breeze was even stronger up here, and Roman took in a lungful of the salty air, trying to rid the scent of dust from his nostrils. His eyes cast around, and they landed on the only things there, aside from the massive light, turned off.

A crumpled-looking suit, and a pristine white envelope.

Roman swallowed, picking up the envelope first, and ripping it open, withdrawing it to reveal beautiful calligraphy, in golden ink.

_Take the dive. You have materials here and at the base of the lighthouse. I do hope you remember your nursery rhymes._

“Nursery rhymes?” Roman said aloud, baffled. He nudged at the suit, and it fluttered a little in the breeze.

It had all the clunky characteristics of an old-fashioned diver’s suit, except the facemask had all the modern looks of an oxygen tank and a mask.

Nursery rhymes.  _Nursery rhymes._  He cast his mind around for some kind of rhyme that had to do with the ocean, or what down in the base could have possibly had anything to do with one.

It didn’t take him long.

“Oh,  _God,”_  Roman said, hearing his voice shake. “ _No._  No way. No  _way.”_

_Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream—_

He had to put on a diving suit, row out into the water, and  _dive?!?!_

Roman didn’t even  _know_  how to do a sea dive with all that gear on! He didn’t know how to operate an oxygen tank! 

But if it was to keep the others safe...

Roman let out a gusting sigh, and reached for the suit.

He ended up managing to put it all on, mostly correct. Probably. It didn’t come with goggles, or one of those old clunky helmets—just the oxygen tank and the mask, and the suit, which fastened over his boots. Roman shrugged the tank on his back, but left the mask off, dangling somewhere around his neck. He plodded back down the stairs, gripping tight to the crowbar.

He didn’t know how much use a crowbar would be in the midst of the ocean, but it made him feel safer to hold it.

He also did not trust that boat at  _all,_  which looked one particularly heavy step away from sprouting a hole and thereby dooming Roman to drown. But he gripped tight to it, and managed to drag it out of the lighthouse, back onto the sandy beach.

Clumsily, he managed to get at least half of it into the water, distantly surprised that he wasn’t, like, convulsing or something, and even more clumsily managed to hop in, barely avoiding capsizing the whole thing. He scrambled for the oars, and it took him a couple seconds, but he did it.

Set out to sea.

They made it sound much easier and romantic in the movies.

In reality, if it wasn’t for the fact that Roman’s diving suit covered his hands, he’d be sure the oars would be giving him splinters. And he felt on the edge of emptying his already-empty stomach with how harshly the waves were tossing him back and forth. And rowing a boat was actually  _way_  harder than it seemed.

He didn’t want to dive. Not yet. He figured he’d probably know when it would be time.

Right?

When he turned back, he realized he couldn’t see the beach anymore. Or the lighthouse. All he could see was the water.

Roman fought the urge to start breathing unevenly again. What if this was just the trap all along? Get Roman out on the water and let him die at sea? Why would he trust something that was probably left by  _Deceit?_  

 _It’s for the others,_  he reminded himself through the thunderous beat of his heart.  _It’s to protect the others. Knight up. You’re the hero. You can do this._

This was probably a good a place as any.

Roman, fumblingly, made sure the oxygen tank was strapped to his back as tight as it could go without being too uncomfortable. He carefully nudged the mask over his nose and mouth, and tightened that too. He spent a bit more time fiddling with the collar and trying to smooth out the wrinkles.

“Here we go,” Roman said, warped by the mask.

Deep sea divers fell backward off the boat, didn’t they? That was the whole thing. Roman, holding his arms out for balance, managed to stand, and sat on the edge of the boat.

 _It’s for the others,_  he reminded himself.  _It’s for the others. You have to do this. You have to do this. It doesn’t matter how you feel. It’s for the others._

Roman looked up at the sky, and blinked.

The sun had been moving, after all.

He didn’t know how he didn’t notice it; he guessed he was too focused on the rowing. But the sun settled low, dipping into the sea, tinging all the stringy, puffy clouds, turning the whole sky a beautiful, deep purple.

Roman took a breath in, let it out. He tweaked the mask one last time.

_Now or never._

Roman stared at the sky. His eyes were almost easing shut. He didn’t know why it was relaxing him so much.

“One.”

Purple was a really pretty color, wasn’t it? It was supposed to denote royalty. It seemed... grander, Roman thought. More composed, more  _dignified_  than his noisy red. 

“Two.”

This was it. Now or never. Stay in the boat or dive and see what was in store.

“Three!”

The last thing Roman saw when he fell backwards from the boat was that beautiful, easy purple, before the shock of the cold water dragged him down, down, down—

* * *

Roman’s eyes snapped open.

 _Oh, grand,_  he thought shakily.  _Not dead._

He wasn’t wearing the suit anymore, either—he was left in his plain white tunic and slacks, his boots. But the oxygen mask was still on his face, and the weight of the tank.

Roman frowned, and reached for it, slinging it around his neck again. Didn’t need that anymore.

He looked up to see another pristine white envelope, taped on the wall in front of him.

Actually... where was he? 

In a tiny locked room, it seemed like. Black walls, black floors. One door. Note taped to that door. He took the envelope, ripping it open with as much disdain as he did before.

Same gold ink.

_What do you remember about Philippa Foot?_

Roman frowned. Turned it over, and back over again. That was it.

Who the hell was Philippa Foot? The name sounded distantly familiar, but he couldn’t place where. Logan would probably know. And why did the name make him think about Patton? He’d probably made a pun off the last name Foot, that was it.

It was familiar, though. Naggingly so. But he couldn’t find out  _why._

One way to find out, he guessed. He eased open the door.

There was a screen, and two... he’d think they were windows, but they’re too dark, he can’t see what’s in front of them. And a kind of waist-high console, with a lever sticking out of it. And a switch at the top.

The screen blinked, and the same gold calligraphy showed up.

_Flip the switch._

What else could he do? He flipped it.

The lights came on in both rooms—because that’s what they were, two rooms. Roman blinked in confusion, looking between them. There were five people in the room to his right. In his left, just one.

The one was a crying little girl, the sky-blue ribbon in her hair quaking with every sob. The five were all in various stages of life—varying genders, races, ages. 

And all six were tied to chairs, and gagged, and struggling to break free.

 _One of these rooms will be deprived of air,_  the screen read.  _You will have to pull the lever to which will receive air, and which will be doomed to die without._

Roman recoiled from the screen, putting as much space between himself and the lever as possible.

 _If you do not choose by the time the timer runs out,_  the screen continues,  _both will be deprived of oxygen. Think quickly._

 _5:00_. Then  _4:59._

“You’re sick,” Roman said hoarsely to the screen. “You’re SICK!”

That didn’t stop the timer. Roman ran his hands through his hair.

They weren’t real. He technically wasn’t either, though, so what did that say about them?

How was he supposed to choose this? 

Five versus one. A little kid versus adults. Roman ran his hand through his hair again.

One life lost was less that five lives lost, right? But who was he to decide whose life was more important? She was young, she had a whole life left to live. But the other five... he didn’t know  _anything_  about the other five. 

But what if they knew this little girl? Who knew how long Roman had been in here—maybe all these faces had been taken from Thomas’ life. Maybe they actually  _knew_  these people and he was being made to forget. The gag blocked off part of their faces—how could he know? How could he tell? They could be disguised. He could be killing five of Thomas’ closest friends.

 _3:47._  How had the clock wound down this fast?

“Think, Roman,  _think,”_  he said, punctuating the last with a thunk of his fist against his temple. There had to be some way he had to figure this out. There had to be a choice he could  _live_  with making.

The only choice he could live with would be if all of them lived. How could he possibly do that? There was a lever and he couldn’t abstain, that was the worst option of them all. 

Think.  _Think._  He toggled the switch, which just toggled the lights. He couldn’t double back into the original room, the door was locked—

Roman paused. The original room.

_What do you remember about Philippa Foot?_

Philippa Foot.  _Philippa Foot._  Why did that sound familiar? Why did that remind him so heavily of Patton?

Patton.  _Patton._ Patton, Philippa Foot. Okay. There had to be a correlation there, right? What did he think of when he thought of Patton?

Uhh. Fatherhood. Philippa Foot sounded like a feminine name, so that was out. Sunshiney personality. He’s never met a Philippa Foot, he doesn’t know how she compares to Patton. Puns. Maybe a pun with her name?

Philippa Foot. Patton.  _Philippa Foot, Patton—_

Roman paused. Patton. Okay. Morality. Morality, and Philippa—

Oh. _Oh._

 _That_  was how he knew it. That TV show. Patton _loved_  Chidi. And Chidi had talked about the Trolley Problem.

_Proposed by British philosopher Philippa Foot._

There’s the brief rush of victory, from remembering, but that sunk quickly to dread as he looked at the clock. _1:39._

What had happened, in that episode? Chidi had taught about the Trolley Problem, clearly, and Janet had been a relationship counselor. But there’s something— _something._

Roman froze, brain catching up at last. His hand drifted up to the oxygen mask.

 _Please put your mask on before you help others,_ he thought nonsensically, remembering that airline announcement. And he remembered how they solved with the Trolley Problem.

So. He can make a choice he can live with. 

Roman took a breath in, and out. He didn’t have much time. He shrugged off the oxygen tank, holding it in his hands.

At _1:12_ , he switches the oxygen over to the room of five. At _1:11_ , he slammed the oxygen tank through the glass of the window of the one.

Roman dove through, barely paying heed to the slicing of the glass, as he crouched in front of the little girl, roughly tugging down the gag.

“It’s okay,” he told her, and carefully eased the mask over her nose and mouth. Was it just his imagination, or was he already starting to feel lightheaded? “It’s okay. You’ll get out of here. It’s okay.”

He wasn’t sure if the words were more comforting to her or to him as he worked to untie her hands, her feet, and he barely managed to free two knots before he felt himself tilt to his side.

Asphyxiation, he thought distantly, was funny. It really kind of was. Because he was still breathing like the air was okay to breathe. Like, his body knew something was wrong, but his brain thought everything was just a-okay. 

The edges of his vision were going white. If this was dying, he thought, it wasn’t really that bad. He was a lot calmer than he thought he’d be, but that was probably because he wasn’t getting enough air to think.

The little girl, Roman thought distantly, was wearing a pretty blue ribbon. Blue. Nice. Calm. Good color.

His eyes were filling up with white, white, white, and then it started to shift, to ease into that pretty, perfect blue.

* * *

Roman jolted awake with a gasp.

Being not dead, he thought. Two for two. Even better.

Also, breathing was _incredible._ Roman took a moment to turn his nose into the grass—because this what he was smelling, grass and dirt and all things gross and nature-y—and wow, oxygen. Underrated element. His ability to use that to produce carbon dioxide? _Sublime_.

He might have been a bit loopy from oxygen deprivation. That was a thing, right? They mentioned it in _Incredibles 2._ Disney wouldn’t lie.

Roman turned onto his back. It’s almost night, he thought. Was this all happening within a timeframe? Or had time stretched out and he was doing all this over the course of months? Years?

He didn’t want to think about that right now. He just had to sit up and look around. And get moving.

 _It’s for the others,_ he reminded himself, and at last sat up. And then he grinned.

“Is this _Harry Potter_?” Roman asked in delight.

Because before him laid a hedge maze. If it was a hedge maze like in _Harry Potter_ , oh, just give Roman a sword and he could mow _right_ through it. This was the first test—because they had to be tests—that he felt even remotely confident about so far.

He shuffled around, and yes, there’s the envelope, right by the entrance of the hedge maze. Roman ripped it open.

_You should be able to do this with your eyes closed._

Roman frowned. No sword fight could be conducted with his eyes closed. Which probably meant no sword fight. _Damn._

Okay, then. Into the maze.

Roman shuffled forward, and just behind him, the maze’s entrance shuffled shut behind him. _Just_ like in _Harry Potter._ Why didn’t any of these tests involve giving him a _sword?_

Okay. Maze. Forward, he guessed. There were paths—forward, either side, back, he guessed. But forward seemed like a good first—

…step.

Huh. Okay. Same kind of path. Forward again.

…same paths. Forward.

He kept going forward and forward and forward and forward. And forward.

Every way was the same. Roman turned, frowning, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

Because he immediately lost his bearings. He had no way of really knowing which way he went—they were identical.

Do this with his eyes closed? Maybe he should. It’s not like he could get anymore lost. Okay. Identical. What did it look like?

Path forward, back, left, right. And the ground—the ground was—

Well, mostly there was grass under his feet. Except—

Roman frowned. Except for an odd patch of dirt to the left, that was kind of shaped like a triangle.

Oh. _Eyes closed._ Roman slid his eyes shut and began to drag his feet along the ground.

Yeah. Definite noticeable dip when his feet moved from grass to dirt.

 _“Ha,”_ Roman said aloud. He knew things too! This was probably the least difficult test so far!

Roman trotted along, looking at the ground for guidance, and soon enough, he came to something.

A door. Roman eagerly rushed forward and tugged at it. Locked. With some kind of keypad. Roman scowled at the envelope taped to the keypad and ripped it off.

_You rip me open, and unveil thousands of me. You hold them up, countless gems that glisten in the sun. But for all the work you’ve done, you can never wear them on your finger or hang them around your neck like pearls and rubies. I exist in bloody multitudes long after you discard my freckled skin. What am I?_

Roman scowled. _Riddles_. Sure, he came across the occasional sphinx, but it was a sight less difficult to notice a triangle of dirt in the grass.

Okay, well. Line by line, he guessed.

 _You rip me open, and unveil thousands of me._ He… has no idea what that means. Okay. Next line.

 _You hold them up, countless gems that glisten in the sun._ Okay. Okay, what made gems? Mines, maybe. But mines couldn’t be ripped open.

 _But for all the work you’ve done, you can never wear them on your finger or hang them around your neck like pearls and rubies._ So not _actual_ gems. Metaphorical gems. What was something that looked like gems?

 _I exist in bloody multitudes long after you discard my freckled skin. What am I?_ Something with skin. Something with _skin._ What had skin? People. Pig skin, maybe, like a football? That probably wasn’t it. Skin, skin, skin… fruit had skin.

Fruit had skin. And certainly no one wore fruit. But which kind of fruit had thousands of itself within it?

Roman paused, thinking, and then it occurred to him, a beautiful glimmer of an idea. He laughed.

 _P-O-M-E-G-R-A-N-A-T-E,_ Roman tapped into the keypad, and the door opened with a hydraulic hiss. Roman stepped forward into another room: another door, this one with some kind of vial to unlock, a table with a five different potions laid out: red, orange, yellow, blue, and clear.

“This is _Harry Potter_ ,” Roman accused the air. “This is straight out of _Sorcerer’s Stone._ ” He picked up the envelope.

_Each potion affects if taken one way, if the potion affects you at all._

_Two can be used for your benefit, two can bring you to downfall._

 

_Two vials have no power if swallowed, four have no power if touched._

_One of these liquids will kill you, another won’t do very much,_

 

_Another will bring you some good, another will rid you of sight._

_The last potion you can take with you, to poison your foes in a fight._

 

_Mix any two vials and you’ll see the new color is what you’d expect_

_And that your brand new concoction has both of the potion’s effects_

 

_All purple potions will kill you, some green potion contains some good._

_The original orange isn’t neutral, but is safe to put on your food._

 

_Six mixes make orange potions, and half of them, drank, make one blind,_

_Four of them certainly kill you, four can be used in a bind._

 

_Pour in your best bet to open the door._

 

Roman scowled. “Fine,” he said. “Not _Harry Potter._ But what would Hermione do?”

Hermione would work it out one by one, probably. Okay. So. The first stanza said each had an effect, right? And two are good, and two are bad. Which means one is… neutral? Probably? He moves onto the second stanza.

Two don’t have power if swallowed, and four have no power in touch. So that means that three of them _do_ have power when swallowed, and one of them could hurt him if he touched it. Which meant he needed to be careful about it.

One was good, the one that would lead him through the door. One blinded, and one was… poison? And they could be mixed, and the new color has… both potions affects. What colors came from combination? Purple?

And the purple one would kill, apparently. And some green were good. Orange was safe to eat. And he had no idea how to parse out the last of it.

Roman wasn’t sure how long he was there, trying to talk it out to himself: if purple meant death, then the killing poison had to be blue or red. Right? And green had to be good. Which meant yellow and blue mixed together was okay. Which meant it was probably red that was deathly poison.

And there’s only one good potion. So the blue one, the yellow one, or the clear one was his best bet.

And it said orange was safe to put on food, but not neutral. So it… probably wasn’t the best?

He sat even longer trying to puzzle out the color combos: eventually, he parsed out that the clear one was blinding, probably, and red was deadly. Which meant yellow or blue were the good ones.

But which one to pour in?

Roman bit at his lip. He didn’t particularly trust the color yellow, at the moment. So he picked up the blue, and poured it into the vial before he could second-guess himself.

It took a heart-stopping moment, but it opened with a hydraulic hiss, and Roman laughed again as he stepped through.

Another door, this time with a speaker and a screen. Another envelope. Roman opened it.

_You are walking in a park one morning. You come across a dead man laying on the park bench. He is holding a straw in his hand. What happened?_

Roman blinked.

“What, that’s it?” He said, uncertain, and the screen blinked. _That’s it._

Roman groaned. “Okay,” he said, and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, so. A dead man holding a straw. Is it, like. A beverage straw, or a bale of hay, straw?”

_Bale of hay straw._

What followed were some of the most frustrating hours of Roman’s whole entire life.

The adrenaline had long since worn off, and his body was starting to smart from where he’d been cut by glass. His white tunic and slacks were looking much less put-together: blood-smeared, and muddy, and grass-stained, he was sure. And his hair was probably sticking up from how much he was tugging at it.

He asked the screen questions, which wasn’t very helpful: the dead man was wearing jeans and a flannel and a coat. He had a pack on his back. He was very clearly dead. No, he didn’t get any hints as to what the dead body looks like, that would be a hint as to how he died.

The sky was still the same muted shade of navy. Night fallen, recent, but it seemed like time was all stuck again. Roman groaned, digging his palms into his eyes.

Logan would probably know. He was good at puddles. He would have realized he’d had the oxygen tank on his back barely ten seconds into the last test, too. Little riddles—pomegranate and potions—were easy enough for an adventuring prince to parse out. But this… this felt _impossible._

At one point, Roman was just dully listing off every dumb though that occurred in his head. Had he had a heart attack? A pulmonary embolism? Had he been stabbed, shot? Something?

Time really did feel stuck. He was patently aware of the fact that he didn’t _know_ how much time passed: he knew it had probably been hours, but the night sky hadn’t budged. Roman wasn’t feeling physically tired or anything.

“How long has it been?” Roman asked wearily, and blinked in surprise when the screen changed.

_Who can compute time in the mindscape?_

Roman blinked again. “You answer questions that aren’t related to the riddles?”

_Obviously._

Roman took in a shaky, uneasy breath. “The other sides,” Roman began. “Are they… are they safe?”

_Almost._

Roman rocketed to his feet. “What do you _mean,_ almost?!” He demanded furiously. “After the things I’ve done, they’re not—?”

_You still have one more test after this one._

Roman stared, jaw slightly slack.

“Another test,” he repeated, and dropped back to the ground again, ripping up a handful of grass. _“Great._ What now? Am I going to have to kill someone?”

_Cannot respond._

“Course you can’t,” Roman muttered bitterly. “Can you answer who’s behind all this? Was Logan right? Is it not all Deceit?”

A blink, a glitch, a loud, claxon whine, then—

_Cannot compute._

“What do you mean, can’t compute?” Roman demanded.

_Cannot compute._

Roman threw the grass, which didn’t travel nearly as long or as hard as he wanted it to, which was very unsatisfying.

 _“Great,”_ Roman seethed. “Can you give me a hint to this stupid riddle?!”

_Roman. What was he wearing?_

Roman paused, blinking. “Flannel,” he listed off. “Jeans. Coat.”

_And?_

He dragged his hand through the grass, distantly noting the dirt under his fingernails. “The pack.”

 _Yes. A pack. Why would that be significant?_ A pause, and then, helpfully, _there’s your hint._

“A pack,” Roman said aloud. “A _pack._ What happens when you wear a pack? It’s not a backpack, you didn’t specify. Just a pack.”

It assembled, and Roman rocketed to his feet, and he blurted out eagerly, “Does the pack hold a parachute?!”

_Yes._

“Well, he—his parachute didn’t work, that’s why he’s dead!”

_More detail._

Roman groaned, and kicked the door, before he dragged a hand through his hair. “Okay,” he said. “Parachutes. Who uses parachutes? Skydivers. But they wear those suits, don’t they? So that’s out. Um… who has access to parachutes and wears normal clothes?”

 _What’s in the air?_ He thought to himself. Planes. But people didn’t skydive out of planes unless they’re a specific kind of plane. He thought. Helicopters—he couldn’t imagine parachutes blend too well with those blades.

What else was in the air? He was close, he could practically taste it. Things in the air, things in the air…

Wait. The straw. Why would someone draw a straw and die from a parachute not going off?

A crash. Something. Maybe. Someone needed to jump out of something so they drew straws, maybe. If this wasn’t it, Roman was going to _cry._ But—but what would they jump out of? What would they have access to jump out of?

It hits Roman like a train. Or a trolley.

“He’s a hot air ballooner,” Roman blurted out. “And they needed to lose weight! So they drew straws to see who’d jump, and he got the short straw. But then his parachute didn’t work and he died.”

A pause. Silence.

“Well?!” Roman demanded. “Am I _right?!”_

A longer pause. Then, the screen beeped, _congratulations,_ and the door let out a hydraulic hiss.

With a whoop, and his head tilted back for the most hysteric laughter yet, he blew kisses up to the navy sky, before he raced in through the door.

Into the brightest lights he’d ever seen, into the—

* * *

This. This had been what he was expecting when he’d stepped on the medallion.

This vast, grand, embellished stage, with stage lights glaring down with all the force of the sun. This stage, serving to what would be a massive audience, if the seats weren’t all empty.

Roman nearly wept when he realized he’d come to holding his sword—it was like seeing an old friend again. He wrapped his hand tighter around the hilt, and barely resisted the urge to kiss it.

Primarily because of the man sitting in a wingback chair just in sight, tucked behind the curtains, clapping slow and sarcastic.

“Well _done,_ Roman,” Deceit said, rising slowly to his feet, the claps echoing in the massive, cavernous hall surrounding them. “Those riddles must have been so _easy_ for you.”

“Better riddles than trying to trick me into being a murderer,” Roman said, voice tight and thick. “What the hell is _wrong_ with you?!”

Deceit spread his hands, and smirked. His yellow eye glinted in the light, like gold.

No. Like pyrite. Like _fool’s gold._

Roman shook himself, hard. And he asked the question he was aching to know.

“The other sides,” Roman said. “Are they safe?”

Deceit only stepped further into the spotlight, still with that infuriating smirk on his face.

Roman threw his hands in the air, and spun, pacing, before turning back to Deceit.

“Well?” He demanded. “There’s supposed to be one last test. Isn’t there? What is it? Do I have to out-lie you? Do I have to prove myself? What is it?”

Deceit tilted, and grinned, and gestured with a gloved hand to the distant door.

Roman, blinking, swiveled at last to face it, still keeping his stare on Deceit, just out of the corner of his eye.

A couple seconds too late, too off the cue, the door blew open, and three familiar (loved, loved, _loved)_ people charged through the door at once, and all at once all his fury melted away. Replaced only by the strongest, most tangible relief.

_They’re safe._

And then... exhaustion.

He’s tired. He’s so, so tired. He’s been thinking and panicking and trying to outsmart these stupid tests. All he wanted was for the other sides to be safe. And they are. They’re here. It’s okay.

He had to make it okay.

But he was so... _tired._  Bone-deep. He felt like pricking his finger on a spinning wheel and sleeping for a hundred years might not even make him well-rested, after all of this.

“ROMAN!” They called, and Roman felt himself catch on a laugh, trying to step forward, to launch himself from the stage, but he couldn’t, smacking his nose.

The stupid pillar. The _pillar._

He thought they were done with that. But there’s something keeping him from crossing off the stage—and he’d bet that they couldn’t cross it either.

“Don’t you hurt him,” Virgil thundered as he approached the stage, and Deceit didn’t react at all, still staring at Roman.

“Welcome to your last test,” Deceit said, and gestured. “Get us out of here.”

Roman paused. Blinked. Deceit took the moment to drag the wingback chair a bit further onstage and sat down.

“But,” Roman said, “but you were the one who brought us here. Weren’t you?”

He didn’t know that. He’d even asked the computer to clear that up. _Logan_ hadn’t even been sure that Deceit was the one who brought them here. He’d gotten into a fight with _Virgil_ about it.

This was his last test. How would they get out of here?

If it was the dreamscape, pinch and wake up. But he and Patton had tried that, and if getting cut by glass didn’t do it, then another pinch probably wouldn’t either. If this was a daydream, he knew how to snap himself out of it. His fantasies he could melt away at will. He’s so tired, usually it would melt away before this.

If this was a test… if this was a test.

Why would he have his sword?

Roman’s grip tightened on it, and he raised it, turning it so it caught the light. His sword. He’d hoped and wished for it. Times of comfort. In case he needed it for a fight.

Was it time for a fight?

...Did he _want_ to fight?

Roman’s eyes drifted to Deceit, who was still smirking up at him, fingers steepled under his chin.  

Virgil had been certain Deceit had been part of what had sent them all here. He’d gotten the medallion from him. All of Roman’s hints for his tests were in gold.

But no side had this level of power. Not Deceit, not Logan, not Patton, not Virgil, and certainly not Roman. No side could trap all the other active sides into an area without escape. It just.. wasn’t done. It was unprecedented. And if it was Deceit’s power, then why use it here? Now?

There were so many loose ends that Roman just… didn’t understand. The medallion, for starters. Where the other sides had been—where _Deceit_ had been, when they were wandering through the woods. If Deceit was behind all this, then where he got his power, and if he wasn’t, then what _was?_ And would it happen again?

And he was so tired he could barely string all those thoughts together.

And what would happen if it did? Would it separate out Virgil for tests, next? Logan? _Patton?_ Would Deceit even try to complete the tests?

Roman paused. Oh. He just… he didn’t even think that purposefully.

Deceit was a side. Yes. Roman might not like him very much. He might behind all this.

But he wasn’t _sure_ about that.

And Roman’s purpose… it was to serve the liege lord. To serve the sides, and the person they became.

And Deceit was a side.

Roman let out a long, huffing breath, and stabbed the point of his sword towards Deceit.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he said, stern.

Deceit batted his eyelashes at him, and Roman turned partially to the other sides, allowing his shoulder to slump forward. Just a little.

He was still keeping an eye on Deceit. Just because they were part of the same person, it didn’t mean he trusted him, all of a sudden.

“None of us have this kind of power,” Roman said. “We’re in agreement about all that. Right?”

The other three sides nodded. Roman took a breath, and tried again, reaching through the pillar.

Yes. He could, now. He helped Virgil, then Patton, then Logan, hop onto the stage.

Roman took a breath, and, at last, sheathed his sword.

“We need to work together,” Roman said bluntly. “Because none of us know what’s going on. But… but I think if we try together. If we _work_ together. We can get out.”

 _Please don’t make me do it alone again,_  he wanted to say, but he almost couldn’t bear it. 

“How?” Patton asked, and Virgil glowered at Deceit.

“ _All_ of us,” he said, skeptical.

“I know you said he was involved,” Roman began, careful. “But… but maybe he stepped into something he didn’t understand. Or his plan intersected with… whatever this is. Or maybe he’s really more powerful than any of us know, and I’m screwing us over. But I don’t know enough to make that call. Do any of us?”

There’s a long moment, in which the other three sides exchange glances. At last, they all shake heads.

“So,” Logan said. “How do we get out?”

Roman paused, and said, weakly, “All in, team,” offering his hand forward.

“You’re kidding me,” Virgil said, incredulous. Angry. Oh, Roman was going to get an earful later. He’s shocked he’s so tired he doesn’t even care about _that_. “You think saying _and break!_ is going to break this?”

Patton had already slapped his hand on top of Roman’s, and he squeezed. There was something in his eyes that Roman really didn’t like. He ached to know what had happened when he was gone.

Logan sighed, but placed his hand on top. “If this messes up, I am blaming you,” Logan said directly to Deceit. There was blood on his arm. Like a curve. Did something _bite_ him?!

Virgil sighed, scowled, but put his hand in too. His eyeshadow was much less tidy than usual. Roman figured he probably didn’t look camera-ready either.

Deceit smirked and put his hand on top.

“Okay,” Roman said, awkward, because, well. What now? His brain wasn’t putting this together. He just needed to rest.

Deceit paused, sighed, and said grudgingly, “I might not have things that would help power this.”

Roman blinked, but Deceit was trotting backstage, and he came out holding three familiar scraps of fabric.

“ _You,”_ Virgil began heatedly, but Patton was already greedily reaching for his cat hoodie, wrapping it around his face and sniffing deep, before hugging it to his chest. Virgil scowled, and snatched back his hoodie. Logan was already tying his tie.

Virgil shrugged off the scarf—Roman had almost forgotten he'd given Virgil his sash. Roman shook it out, and it fell out of that half-purple/half-red yarn state. Back to all red, noisy satin. Back to normal.

Roman paused, and his fingers hesitated as they ran down his sash, before he carefully draped it across his shoulder.

Everyone looked… a bit more like themselves. Bedraggled and like they’d been dragged through hell and back, sure. But more like themselves.

He didn’t know how this would power it. Magic, probably. Hope. Some of the most powerful stuff there is.

They stacked hands again. Deceit, then Roman, and Patton, and Logan, and Virgil.

And then the world swirled in a sickening rush of color, and Roman felt himself rise up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> most of the riddles were found online, except for the last one, which was based off the most infuriating riddle of my childhood. i added in the pack clue, because otherwise roman would have been working on that for a week, the way i did


	5. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. 36,338 words later, huh? this was originally supposed to be a oneshot, you know? but then everyone kinda screamed at me and well. plot sprung forth. thank you for sticking with this, even through the bizarre twists and turns. 
> 
> ...and, well. one more thing. this ending. gotta end how i begin, right?

**roman**

As soon as they all touched earth again, Virgil was dropping his hand from the stack and, as soon as he’d visually confirmed Deceit had managed to vanish in their ascent, crossed over and shoved Roman.

“What the _hell_  was that?!” He demanded, and jostled him again, wild-eyed, his dripping eyeshadow making his eyes look even wilder.

"Whoa, _whoa,”_  Patton interceded, voice finding some of its parental sternness for the first time since before Roman had smashed the medallion, stepping between them and raising his hands. “We’re out, aren’t we? We’re home?”

He’d directed that question to Logan, pleadingly.

“I’ll check,” Logan said, and dropped out of sight for the briefest moment, before rising back up and giving him a curt nod.

Patton slumped in relief, and then resumed his stance between Roman and Virgil—a cautionary hand held up in the universal sign for _stop_  at Virgil, a hand loosely gripping Roman’s wrist.

“Then let’s just—take a second, okay?” Patton said, glancing between the other three. “Let’s do four seconds, yeah?”

Obligingly, the other three sides sucked in air for four seconds, Patton a moment late, out of sync.

Seven held. Eight out.

“Everyone’s okay, right?” Patton said, directing a watchful eye to each of them. “Any injuries I don’t know about?”

He looked at Roman, who shrugged. Virgil was scowling, drawing his hood up over his head, bangs brushing over his eyes, as if he was trying to draw himself into his hoodie to sulk in solitude.

“A few cuts,” Roman said. “Nothing serious—the rest of you? Logan, I saw your arm—”

Patton flinched, and let go of Roman’s arm. Roman’s brow furrowed.

“We’re all... all right, physically speaking,” Logan said.

“We nearly couldn’t have been,” Virgil snarled, beginning to pace, like a caged animal. “We nearly _couldn’t_  have been. How could you have trusted him?!”

Roman felt some kind of retort rise up in his chest.

But it died somewhere on the way; maybe it was Virgil’s frenetic pacing, still ready for a threat to pop up just when they’d thought they were safe. Maybe it was Logan, discreetly attempting to hide the bitemark from eyesight. Maybe it was Patton, who looked like a lost, half-drowned little kid, eyes too big and too watery and lip just barely trembling, arms wrapped around himself.

Instead of saying anything, he sank into the nearest armchair, and braced his elbows on his knees, burying his face into his hands.

Even without seeing him, he could hear the way Virgil’s feet stopped; he imagined, distantly, the foot caught mid-drag on the floor, the surprised look on Virgil’s face.

A Roman who didn’t want to fight at the precise moment they’d have probably needed it. One more way he was useless.

He might have felt bitter if he didn’t feel so bone-achingly exhausted.

“Roman,” Patton said, and his voice was hushed. “Oh, Roman, honey, it’s okay. You got us all out of there.”

Patton must have sat down on the arm of the chair; Roman could feel Patton’s arm wrap around his shoulders, a tentative tug of an invitation to bury his face against Patton’s chest, to hide from the world a little bit.

It was the most appealing thing he’d heard all night.

But the bitter, angry thoughts from the lighthouse began to bubble up in his brain. So instead, Roman cleared his throat, dragged his hands down his face, and awkwardly nudged Patton into the chair properly as he stood upright again.

 _Why would they want to deal with me?_  That nasty little voice repeated, and Roman instead put his hands behind his back—and yes, Virgil was still hunched over in his hoodie, glowering.

“I asked,” Roman said, hating the pleading edge in his voice. “I _asked_  if anyone had any other ideas. I didn’t _want_  to trust him, not after—“

That maddening riddle. That Herculean walk from the beach.

That little girl with the sky-blue ribbon in her hair.

“Not after everything,” Roman finished feebly. “And I don’t. I _still_  don’t.” 

“But,” Virgil bit out.

“But he is a side.”

Virgil threw a hand up in frustration, and there was the distant noise of a door opening. Roman glanced at it.

Logan cleared his throat, and waved the first aid kit. “Some of your cuts are still bleeding. If you’d come with me.”

“Right,” Patton said, glancing towards Virgil. “Maybe some time to... cool down, a little? Ease up?”

Logan turned and went; Roman followed.

They waited until they were in a separate room.

“Roll up your sleeves,” Logan said.

“What happened?” Roman said, and at last let that pleading tone come through. “What am I missing, here?”

Logan paused, and said again, “Roll up your sleeves.”

Roman did, and allowed his scratched forearms to come to rest on a little table as Logan pulled up the other chair, doused a cotton ball in rubbing alcohol.

“This will sting,” he said, robotically. Roman gritted his teeth in anticipation. And equally as robotically, Logan began to describe their long walk through the forest, the puddles of water.

The oasis.

Roman sucked in a breath that was only partially due to the sting of rubbing alcohol as Logan described Patton: granted, in Logan’s usual flattened tone, but Roman could imagine it, the gleam of the water reflecting in Patton’s eyes, going glassy, going _captivated._ No wonder Patton had looked so squeamish about the bitemark—Roman would have been too. Poor guy.

“—so Virgil and I came to the conclusion that one of us would have to go after him.”

Roman wrenched his arm back to himself, clutching at it.

“Too much?” Logan said, inspecting the fifth cotton ball, as if it was something as minimal as too much rubbing alcohol could bother him after a reveal like _that._

“You _went in after him?!”_  Roman demanded.

“Eventually,” Logan said, awkwardly holding the cotton ball. He gestured for Roman’s arm back, which he did reluctantly, and resumed gritting his teeth against the sting. “Virgil had taken a long period of time. I’d deduced he’d come to a risk of drowning, too. So I went in.”

Logan’s voice was studiously even and calm. Less... blunt. Than usual. Roman frowned, and looked at him.

He seemed... paler. More drawn. A bit less prone to confrontation.

Roman supposed he was too. But _Logan?_

“...did you land in a dream?” Roman asked, and Logan shrugged with a nod, a studiously blasé motion.

“What was it?” Roman asked.

“Does it matter?” Logan asked, not looking up from Roman’s arm. 

Roman paused. 

Logan. Unemotional, logic-worshipping, outbursty Logan. Trapped in some dream world of his own creation. A world where he was the most valued side? A world he’d be studying chemistry and space and all the sciences to his nerdy little heart’s content? A world where maybe, just maybe, he was a touch more sentimental than the way he presented himself here?

A world where Roman and Patton and Virgil, with all their doubts and foibles and illogical ways, were gone?

No. Logan wouldn’t dream that.

Would he?

“Guess not,” he said.

Logan summarized the rest, wrapping Roman’s arms in gauze, and Roman almost wanted to start laughing; guess Patton was right and saving Lysanderoth wasn’t so bad after all.

“And you?” Logan said.

Roman took a deep breath in, and took for a new cotton ball, dousing it. He took hold of Logan’s arm, inspecting the bitemark.

“I didn’t know what I expected when I smashed the medallion,” he began. 

* * *

**patton**

Virgil was still pacing. Patton wanted to walk over and still him, but he had a feeling Virgil would plow him right back over again.

So. In the armchair he kept sitting, then.

“It can’t have been that simple,” Virgil said. “He wouldn’t have had us all meet up for a confrontation only to let us go because Roman started talking about the magic of teamwork.”

“ _If_  he set it up,” Patton couldn’t help but say, and Virgil grimaced.

“ _If_  he had the power to get us all trapped in the dreamscape. _If_  it was even the dreamscape at all.  _If_  he had the power to send Roman away. _If, if, if—”_

“Breathe,” Patton chided him, and Virgil glowered at him before sucking in an over-exaggerated breath.

Patton paused, before he said, soft and quiet, “Thanks. For saving me.”

Virgil. Stops. He glanced towards Patton, before at last coming to sit, almost timidly, on the couch.

“Are you, um,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”

“Are _you?”_  Patton asked, because that had been niggling at his brain for the whole night, ever since they’d found Virgil tied up in that field.

Virgil angled a wounded look at him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t—“ Virgil waved a hand half-heartedly, and at last tugged his hood off his head. “Don’t do... that thing you do. The.” He waved a hand. “The setting-aside-your-own-problems-and-ignoring-them-by-handling-other-people’s-first thing.”

“Oh,” Patton said, and blinked, before half-heartedly nudging his still-wet hair out of his eyes. “I—I wasn’t trying to. I’m not, I don’t think, I just—I want to know. You’re okay. That... that _everyone’s_  okay.”

Patton fidgeted with the sleeves of his cat hoodie, and muttered, “That I didn’t... mess it up.”

“Oh,” Virgil said, and moved off the couch, kneeling in front of Patton’s armchair in a way that clanged and echoed unpleasantly in Patton’s head, reminding him of the dreamscape, of wracking his mind to recognize his _best friend._  So he slid out of the armchair, too, to sit on the ground instead of let _that_ keep happening in a way that made his head ache.

Actually, his head had been aching dully most of this night, especially since he’d gotten out of the oasis, but. Even more.

“Hey, no. No no no, you didn’t—you didn’t mess it up, it could have happened to any of us—”

“It didn’t, though,” Patton said, and the bitterness in his voice surprised him and Virgil both, Virgil blinking, Patton wincing as soon as it came out of his mouth. 

“Sorry,” Patton said, patting Virgil’s wrist. “But I just—you’re okay, right? He didn’t hurt you before you got there, and you’re... you’re okay. Right?”

He was distantly aware that his hands and voice were shaking. Virgil’s hand covered his own, and then he put his hands on Patton’s wrists, slowly sliding them down so he was holding his hands, looking Patton dead in the eye.

“I am okay,” Virgil said, and his voice low. “We’re all okay. Bumps and scrapes. That’s it. You didn’t do anything wrong. Okay?”

Patton smoothed his thumbs silently over Virgil’s knuckles, staring at the warpainted, streaky eyeshadow. He’d cried. _Virgil_  had cried. Virgil, of all people—dark and stormy night had _cried._

Because of Patton.

“Most of what happened was me before was me being tied up and talked at,” Virgil continued. “I’m okay.”

He’d come so close to _not_  being okay, though. His lips had gone blue, so blue, and if Logan hadn’t stormed in when he did, they’d have—

They’d have—

“Are you?” Virgil said, and Patton blinked, trying to cling to the thread of the conversation.

“Are you okay?” Virgil repeated, and Patton took a breath in.

If Roman’s gamble hadn’t worked, if Patton hadn’t thrown himself into the water, if Deceit was even the one behind all this—

_if, if, if—_

Patton smiled, bright and false as pyrite.

“I will be,” Patton said. “I am.”

* * *

**logan**

Rubbing alcohol, adhesive tape, bandages. Gauze that Logan was carefully rolling into formation, making sure everything was ship-shape.

Maybe procrastinating a little. Maybe that.

But there were only so many times a man could unroll and re-roll gauze, arranging it by type and size, before he at last had to set it all carefully back into place.

There was a click, and very practiced, Logan did not allow his shoulders to hike to his ears.

“Sorry,” a voice said, hushed, and Logan carefully pressed on the lid so it latched, so it was shut.

“That’s all right,” Logan said. “I was just... tidying up.”

He turned.

Patton was futzing with the electric kettle. “Do you want a mug?” Patton asked, timid. “It seems like the kind of night for tea.”

...Logan could put things off a bit more.

“All right,” Logan said, and stowed the first aid kit back under the kitchen sink. “Is there anything I should fetch?” 

They ended up making sticky, triangular peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the jelly so overloaded it leaked onto their fingers, with stacks of misshapen, leftover, cracked and broken cookies, a bowl of thinly-sliced apples between them that crunched pleasantly under Logan’s teeth, edging out the tannin-wrought bitterness of the tea he used to unstick the peanut butter from the roof of his mouth.

It was an irreconcilably childish meal. For once, Logan didn’t particularly mind the comforts of the past.

For once, he didn’t deny that he needed them.

Patton was absent-mindedly sorting the cookies—by type, then by wholeness—and they were studiously not talking about it, until Patton allowed his pinky to linger on one cookie in particular. He took a breath in.

“Is...” Patton looked at Logan, and said at last, “Is it just _us_ that’s affected by all this? Did it affect...?”

The question hung in the air as Patton gestured minutely with his head, in a way that Logan took to mean _out there,_  in the real world.

“No,” Logan said, soft and careful. “No. He was asleep, I think. Didn’t see a thing. Was rather confused by me popping up in the midst of what he thought was a perfectly normal night.”

Patton let out a slow breath of relief, and nudged the cookie back into line, muttering, “Well, that’s a silver lining, at least.”

Logan picked up what looked like the crumbliest, smallest, stalest cookie, one that had surely been left to languish in pursuit of newer, fresher packages. A mouthful of tea softened it only slightly.

Logan was on his fourth of systematically working through what were the worst cookies; the broken, tiny ones, the ones that looked incredibly old, the ones that made a dull clanging sound against the plate when Logan tapped it.

Patton, oddly, scowled more and more with each cookie. By the time Logan was reaching for the fifth, Patton’s hand came down on it instead, scowling.

“Stop that,” he said. 

Logan blinked. “Stop what?”

“Stop—” Patton said, and gestured with the cookie. “Stop eating all the bad cookies. You deserve the fresh cookies.”

Logan scowled back, and instead reached for the sixth he’d mentally listed. 

“It seems prudent to start with the less desirable cookies,” Logan said waspishly. “If anything, _you_  should have the fresher cookies. You enjoy them more than me.”

Patton looked... irregular, scowling. He had expected this to make Patton slightly happier. It seemed to have done the opposite.

“ _I_  have cookies _more_ than you,” Patton said mulishly. “So _you_  should be able to have the fresher ones.”

“ _That_  would go to show that you’ve developed more of a palate for cookies than I have,” Logan snapped. “ _And_  I enjoy tea more than you do, which at least softens the cookies to some degree.”

Patton mutinously shoved the cookie into his mouth, and Logan’s hand shot out to cover the next, and Logan saw Patton’s hands move before he could blink.

Quick, Patton had stacked the next three in swift succession, and immediately shoved them into his mouth.

“ _There_ ,” Patton said, or maybe he said something else, and Logan couldn’t hear him through the spewing of crumbs.

Maybe it was his puffed-up cheeks, or Logan’s mouth hanging agape. Or maybe it was how truly, _truly_  ridiculous it was that they were fighting over _cookies,_  of all things.

Either way, Logan’s lip twitched. And Patton, chomping angrily, zeroed in on them.

“Wha’s ‘ _at_ loo’ su’ose’ ‘oo mea’?” Patton barely managed to articulate around his mouthful, and Logan studiously, cautiously, pressed his lips into a line. 

Patton’s eyes seemed to light up, just a little, and he pressed his hands over his mouth before bending double and beginning to laugh.

Logan, at last, allowed himself a smile, and breathless thing that might have been a laugh. And then Patton started giggling _harder,_  and perhaps Logan was ignoring how that noise, choked off by the cookies, sounded like something between sobs and laughter, and instead chose, for once, to not say anything about it.

When Patton resurfaced after swallowing, he was wiping under his eyes, and Logan chose to believe that it was from laughter.

“Ugh,” Patton said, and grinned. Almost normal. “You’re right, those are better with tea.”

“I have a solution,” Logan said, and divided the cookies into two piles: equal amounts of almost-new and definitely-old. He nudged one pile towards Patton, and tugged the other closer to himself.

Patton looked almost like he was going to argue, but at last, he shrugged, and accepted it.

“Very egalitarian,” Patton said, sounding pleased.

Logan lifted his eyebrows. _That’s a big word,_  he thought, but did not say, because if he did that temporary smile would disappear and with it would go all sense of normalcy.

“What are we doing?” Logan said instead.

“Hm?”

“This,” Logan said, gesturing to the cookies. “This whole... night. It doesn’t make sense. Any of it.”

“I know,” Patton said simply. “Do you want to talk it out?”

Logan paused.

“You’ve got to have _some_  guess,” Patton urged. 

Logan sighed, and said, “Guesses is one way to say it,” he said.

Patton took a bite of another cookie; Logan sipped at his tea.

“Deceit doesn’t have that power,” Logan said simply. “I mentioned this before. There is only one... _being_  with that power, and he wasn’t responsible.”

Patton was shaking his head. “He wouldn’t,” Patton said. “Thomas wouldn’t—”

“Not the things Roman saw, either,” Logan said, and at Patton’s inquisitive look, offered, “Ask him.”

“I will,” Patton said. “Tomorrow, when he’s awake. So...”

“So I’m lost,” Logan said. “Virgil believes that Deceit did it. Roman doesn’t think so. I’ve had enough of impossibilities for tonight.”

Patton surveyed him, and instead of speaking, he nudged Logan’s cookie pile closer.

Logan allowed himself a brief laugh, and took one from the top.

 

Patton walked him casually up the stairs, all the way to the doorway of his room, and neither of them said a word about the particular comforts of walking up the stairs alone to a place they’d previously been attacked before.

“Well,” Logan said. “Good night.”

“If anyone’s actually sleeping, I’d be shocked,” Patton said, before he reached out to grip Logan’s shoulder. “Thank you for saving me. From the water.”

“To you in kind,” Logan said, and Patton looked surprised until Logan reminded him: “The vines.”

Patton’s lips parted in a little _o_  of recognition, before he nodded, and patted Logan on the shoulder. 

A mischievous grin broke out on his face as soon as Logan opened the door.

“I hope you didn’t sneak off any of those cookies and forget about them,” Patton said, and the grin widened. “I’d hate for you to have a _crumb-y_  sleep.”

Logan shook his head, still smiling, and repeated, “Good _night,_  Patton.”

He closed the door to Patton’s laughter, and flicked on the light, turning to face his room, only to come to a dead stop, hand still on the knob.

He hadn’t been playing chess before all of this.

Logan swallowed, and released the knob, to further inspect the chessboard left on his desk.

It seemed to have been caught in the dregs of the game; pawns and rooks and knights alike were scattered carelessly about the desk, queens tossed to the ground, with only a ramshackle collection of a lone bishop, a knight to each side, some stray pawns, and the two kings left. 

The black and yellow kings.

Logan swallowed, and crossed over closer, staring at the board. At last, he allowed himself a small smile.

“Checkmate,” he said aloud, and nudged along the black knight into place, taking the yellow one, before tipping over the golden king with one finger, triumphant.

* * *

**virgil**

It was a wonder Virgil hadn’t worn a path in Roman’s carpet yet.

“You’re going to make your thumbnail bleed if you keep biting it like that,” Roman said wearily from his bed, where Virgil had forcefully tucked him in and refused to let him leave, under the guise of apologizing for shoving him.

Virgil lowered his hand, and Roman sighed in relief.

He brought his other thumb up to his mouth.

“Oh come _on,”_  Roman said, but Virgil didn’t pay him any mind.

Five steps, pivot, five steps, pivot. 

“How hard would you glare at me if I told you to breathe, right now?” Roman asked, and Virgil turned to do just what he said.

“Got it,” Roman said. “That hard.”

“I’m holding back because you’re injured,” Virgil groused.

“We’re all injured, try again,” Roman said, amused.

“Fine,” Virgil said. “I’m holding back because you sacrificed yourself, _like an idiot.”_

The slight smile dropped off Roman’s face. “Oh,” he said.

“What were you _thinking?!”_  Virgil said furiously. _Pivot, five, pivot._

“I was _thinking_  I’d save you all,” Roman said irritably, “does that _work_  for you, Mariah Scary?”

A nickname. Virgil wasn’t sure if he’d ever been so glad to hear one.  _Five, pivot, five._ If he wasn’t still furious at Roman, at the whole _situation,_  of course.

“Not if it comes at the cost of _you,”_ Virgil fumed. _Pivot, five, pivot._

“You’d have done it if—!”

“No, I _wouldn’t_  have,” Virgil plowed over the end of his sentence, “because I _had_  it, remember? _You_  stole it off my neck!”

_Pivot, five, pivot._

_“You_ wanted us to forget it even existed—”

“Of course I wanted to forget it ever existed!” Virgil bellowed. “We were supposed to _stick together_  and get through it _together!”_

_Five, pivot, five._

“It was a way _out!”_

 _“Clearly_  it wasn’t, we ended up getting all out _to-geth-er_ , didn’t we?!” Virgil demanded.

“ _Because_ I _took_ the _medallion_!”

 _“We don’t KNOW_   _that!”_  Virgil screamed back. “We could have _lost_  you, we could have—“

“What does that _matter_  if it meant you were all _safe?!”_  Roman exploded. “What do _I_  matter?!”

Virgil. Stopped.

Roman had frozen in his bed, fists clutching the sheets, and his mouth snapped shut. 

“I,” he said.

The moment broke.

“I didn’t mean to say it like _that,”_  Roman said in a nervous rush, with a patently fake laugh. “I just meant—I mean, in the grander scheme of things, if you were all safe, then—”

“Not if it came at the cost of you,” Virgil managed to say. “I—not without _you,_  Roman. If we were all safe but without you—”

Virgil had to shake off the mental image—Logan left without someone to quarrel with, Patton left without someone to gush with, Virgil left without an escape mechanism—

Too terrible for words.

“Don’t,” Virgil began, and sighed. “Don’t. Make this weird.”

“Make what weird?”

But Virgil was already plodding over to Roman’s bedside, and fumblingly managed to sit on something squishy, before leaning over and perhaps resting his head a bit too hard on Roman’s shoulder, trying to wrap his arms around Roman like he actually knew how to comfort people, desperately wishing that he was adept as Patton was at this kind of thing.

“Oh,” Roman said. A pause.

“Okay, I know you said don’t make it weird—“

“We haven’t even lasted _five seconds.”_

 _“—but_  how is it possible that, since we have the _same body,_  and I am so _thicc,_  and yet your butt is _so_ impossibly bony?”

Virgil drew back, just slightly, offended.

“It’s like you have daggers down there,” Roman said, serious, belied only by his twitching lips.

“Fuck _you,_  it’s your bony ass too,” Virgil said, before he paused. “Wait.”

Roman began to laugh, and Virgil shoved him aside, sliding off the squishy stuff—Roman’s legs, probably—to the mattress instead.

“Seriously, though,” Virgil said, once the laughing died down. “I... I’m no Patton, but. We need you, you know? You make us better too.”

Roman’s eyes went wide, and then soft, and then he snorted a little.

“You’re stealing my line.”

“Fine,” Virgil said. “How about, ‘I might not have agreed with what you did, but thank you for saving us?’”

Roman smiled—not broad and wide and confident, a tiny, little, _real_  thing.

“It’s my job,” he said simply. He paused, before he added, “Thanks, for, you know. Protecting them when I wasn’t there.”

Virgil let out a tiny snort, and fiddled with his hoodie sleeve.

“Yeah, well,” Virgil said, and slanted a look at him. “It’s my job.”

 

Virgil almost thought that sneaking out of Roman’s room without waking him up was just about the most nerve-wracking thing he’d done all night.

Almost.

If it weren’t for, you know. The subconscious mind trying to attack them with things they barely understood.

Virgil found himself wandering back downstairs, and tidying up the remaining detritus of a midnight meal—jam pointed to Logan, but the scattered remains of old cookie containers pointed to Patton. Maybe together. Maybe separate. He’d ask in the morning. Maybe.

But regardless, he rinsed off the plates and stuck them in the washer, and got himself a glass of water while he was at it, and wiped down the counters with a wet cloth, and got another one to wipe free the streaky eye makeup, leaving his face clean and unpigmented. He dawdled over whether or not he should bust out the broom and dustpan too before he was forced to acknowledge he was just channeling nervous energy into something else, and so he left the room.

In the living room, he tidied up the pillows and blankets, and put the remote back where it could be easily located. There wasn’t much wrong here—just the normal mess of the mindscape, of their lives.

Normal. Easy to fix. 

Something Virgil needed right now. Something _all_  of them needed right now.

In the morning, Patton would probably make some kind of breakfast in an attempt to distract himself. Logan would probably start reading a new book and hounding them about the subject matter. Virgil wouldn’t be surprised if Roman tried to fill another notebook for the collection.

And he was just... anxiety. He didn’t want their days filled with a pounding heart and sweating and chest pain and shaking and the _rest_  of it, so instead he used that for something else.

Virgil began to rearrange the pillows instead of focus on that particular line of thought.

Eventually—when he’d straightened things in the main area as much as he could without running the risk of waking the others—he was forced to admit defeat, and instead go back to his room, to find something else to occupy his brain.

Or, in his wildest dreams, actually manage a decent night’s sleep.

Virgil spun his phone in his hand, a practiced tic, as he walked down the hall, refusing to give in to the urge to keep turning and checking over his shoulders.

 _It’s over,_  he told himself firmly. _It’s over. You’ve gotten through it, and it’s over, and it’ll be better in the morning._

If only he could believe it, that’d be just _swell._

Roman had been snoozing, but Virgil still cracked the door to check.

Yes. Fairy lights dimly shining showed Roman, still flopped on his side, mouth inelegantly open, making noises that would surely progress fully to snoring. Virgil smirked and closed the door with hardly a click.

Patton’s door, then—Virgil wasn’t surprised to see that a few stuffed animals had joined the fray tonight, including one that had been knocked to the ground, something that would surely upset Patton if he woke to see it there. He nudged off his shoes in the hall, and crept into Patton’s room in socked feet, bending to pick up the bear and straightening.

The bags under his eyes looked much more pronounced, from this distance.

Virgil frowned and carefully set the bear behind Patton, as if it was giving him a hug, before he crept back out into the hallway. He picked up his shoes, rather than put them back on again—Logan was the lightest sleeper of them all.

Logan’s lights were fully off, so Virgil had to sneak in closer and squint in order to see Logan’s closed eyes, the blankets hiked over his shoulders, the even rise and fall of his chest, and the distant glint of pieces on the desk.

Huh. Virgil didn’t know Logan was getting into chess again.

Virgil tore his glance from the chess board, and focused his attention on nudging Logan’s glasses further onto the nightstand, so a flailing hand in quest of shutting off an alarm wouldn’t knock them to the ground, and smoothing a wrinkle in the bedsheets before he crept out again.

Something in his chest had died down at the sight of them, safe and soundly asleep. He wondered if it would let him get some rest in kind.

At last, his room. Virgil dropped his shoes by the door, and let his shoulders relax gradually at the sight of his room. 

His bed unmade, some clothes strewn on the ground, closet door flung open. All was well.

All was well. Why couldn’t he make himself believe it, then?

Not while he chanted it to himself while changing, or brushing his teeth, or getting the last few swipes of eyeshadow off his face. Not while he tossed his dirty clothes in the hamper and shut the closet door, at last groaning and leaning his head against it.

 _It’s over,_  he told himself firmly. _It’s over._

Almost as if to specifically contradict him, Virgil felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Virgil swallowed, throat dry.

 _It’s over,_  he told his clenching fists. _It’s over, it’s over, it’s over,_  he told his knit brow, his thundering heart, his heavy shoulders.

His body knew before he did, he supposed.

He couldn’t even be surprised when he turned and saw the Virgil marionette sitting on his bed, with a wide, garish, unnatural grin in a way it certainly hadn’t been before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, find me on tumblr at [lovelylogans!](lovelylogans.tumblr.com)


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